


The Marked

by ExplodedPen



Series: Little Britain [3]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-24
Updated: 2006-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 35,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExplodedPen/pseuds/ExplodedPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We fight for them. We learn for them. We exist for them.</p><p>We do this for the People.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Alva

_We fight for them. We learn for them. We exist for them._

_We do this for the people._

0 0 0 0

Barren wasteland that held only a single building previously was now a bustle of activity. Machines worked in silent harmony on sleek metal crafts, aided by mute beings in grey uniforms with white markings adorning one sleeve.

It was impossible to tell the beings apart. The same tousled, auburn coloured hair adorned each head; the same empty green eyes stared out across the sea of machines and tools. No emotion was displayed, save the surprised hiss of pain when they drew blood.

The beings worked day and night, ignorant of their own needs, ignoring the sudden collapse of others around them as they succumbed to dehydration or sleep deprivation. The only thing that mattered was finishing the crafts, making them beautiful, making them strong. For all that died more would replace them.

Recycled then reused.

No material was wasted, not a scrap of metal or drop of blood. It all aided the course.

The beings only knew of the ships, and an overwhelming desire to serve an unknown master. There was no contemplation of life, no mourning of death, no need or desire for relationship or contact with another being. There was just a single blinding purpose, the building of the craft.

Once the craft were built, the beings would cease to have purpose, they would wander the barren wasteland, devoid of the mental capacity for survival. Their masters would let them die.

If more workers were needed before the ship was completed, the dead would merely be recycled.

No material was wasted.

The machines halted, and paused. Unbearably loud silence spread across the beings as they too stopped to stare. A quiet hum filled the air, and a sleek, beautiful craft rose up from the ground.

The beings nodded as one then returned to their work.

It had begun.

0 0 0 0

Captain Elise Hathaway settled in her chair, drumming her fingers restlessly as she gazed at the viewscreen. She couldn't shake a feeling of unease that had been dogging her since she woke, even though there was no basis for it. Life aboard a scientific vessel had never held what many would deem adrenaline pumping excitement – not unless they counted scientific discoveries in with that assessment at least.

She glanced around at her bridge crew, all were working diligently seemingly quite happy – all save Lieutenant Lily Chambers.

Lieutenant Chambers had been a late addition to the crew, transferred from the Enterprise after a traumatic away mission – or so the rumours suggested. The full details of the mission had never been released to general personnel, leaving only speculation and rumour. Indeed, Lily had never been persuaded to speak of what happened, only a vague statement about recycling that made no sense.

_'Recycling is death. That place was death.'_

Elise shivered slightly and ceased drumming her fingers. Lily glanced at her, Elise offered a smile, but Lily didn't return it instead frowning worriedly.

"There's a ship appearing on sensors, Captain," a clear, loud voice cut across her thoughts. "It's on a direct intercept course with us."

Elise glanced back at the speaker. "Brandon, can you identify it?"

Brandon shook his head. "It's not a ship design known to us."

Elise nodded once, frowning ever so slightly. A new ship? Out here? The region they were currently travelling through had been explored many times; it had been years since an unknown vessel had been sighted travelling through this area of space.

"It's moving fast, Captain," said Brandon a hint of worry creeping into his tone.

Elise turned her attention to the tactical station. "Can you give me any information?"

"Our scans can't penetrate its shields."

"It's coming to a halt alongside us, Captain," Brandon announced.

"On screen." Elise stared at the viewscreen; a sleek, silver craft almost filled the entire screen, triangular in shape with curved edges and a bulge beneath. "Chambers, open a hailing frequency."

Lily tapped a few keys. "Hailing frequency open."

"This is Captain Elise Hathaway of the Alva, please state your intentions." Elise paused, first contact had not been a required skill for her captaincy, the Alva usually arrived after first contact had been made.

**"Captain Hathaway."** The voice sounded rusty as it stumbled over her name. **"We are the Iyoshians. Prepare to surrender your vessel."**

"Surrender? I –" Elise scowled

**"Surrender or be recycled,"** the voice interrupted her.

"Just wait one second –" Elise began but was cut off by Lily shaking her head.

"They've cut the communication," she whispered.

"Ma'am, we can't take them on in a fight, we don't have the firepower," her tactical officer chipped in quickly.

"We can't just surrender," Elise spat, "Sound tactical alert. Lily, send out a distress call – I'm sure the Magellan is patrolling this sector." She stared at the silver monstrosity on the viewscreen.

"We'll have no choice," said Lily, her eyes looking slightly unfocused as her fingers ghosted across her console. "Surrender or be recycled…"

Elise stared at her, recognising the term. _'Recycling is death. That place was death.'_ "You've met these people before," she realised.

Lily stared up at her. "Captain, either way we're dead. Believe me; surviving by surrendering is a far worse alternative than death."

All of a sudden the ship rocked. "That was a warning shot," the tactical officer called out, "Just grazed our nose." There was a pause then "They're charging weapons again."

"Raise shields," Elise barked, "Return fire!"

To her left she could hear Lily chanting a message to her console. "Mayday, mayday. This is the Alva, we are under attack, repeat - we are under attack."

A shot struck the ship, sending the bridge crew flying. Elise slammed into the floor then quickly struggled to regain her footing. "Evasive manoeuvres! Lewis keep firing!" A glance around the bridge showed complete and utter devastation. At her feet lay Lily, unconscious with blood streaming from a wound on her forehead. "Get a med team up here now!"

The ship lurched as another shot from the enemy vessel just missed hitting them, skimming their bow.

"They're matching our every move, Captain! They're too fast for us!"

A second shot struck them, knocking the crew from their posts once more. Medics stumbled out of the turbo-lift, shuffling towards the fallen. Lily was carried off.

Elise dragged herself to her feet once more. To her right she could see Lieutenant Lewis, tactical officer struggling back to his station. "Shields are failing!"

Another shot grazed the ship. Elise clutched at her chair, fighting to remain standing.

"Hull breach, deck 3!" Brandon yelled, coughing at the smoke filling the bridge. "Emergency bulkheads are holding."

Behind her she could hear the hiss off extinguishers working to put out fires. On the viewscreen the alien vessel returned, taunting them. The communications console beeped. Brandon staggered over to it. "They're hailing us."

**"This is your last warning. Surrender or be recycled."**

All around her Elise could see and hear her bridge crew struggling to their feet. Feeling the worried gaze of scientists settle on her she stared at the alien ship.

The alien ship fired again, the Alva rocked violently.

"We've lost engines," Brandon stated quietly. "We're dead in the water."


	2. Eight out of Ten

Cries filled the air. Malcolm stirred, then groaned as someone poked him in the spine.

"It's your turn," Emma, his wife, mumbled from behind him. "I did it…some other time."

"If you can't remember it must be your turn," he grumbled yawning, as he gently shrugged the duvet off.

"You love me really." The mattress shifted as Emma rolled over yawning, dragging the remainder of the duvet with her. "Besides, I like sleep more than you."

Malcolm rolled his eyes grinning, slipping his feet into his slippers, padding out the room and down the hallway to the source of the cries.

"Daddy's here, Denny," he mumbled yawning again. He leaned over the pine cot reaching for the crying baby.

Lifting his daughter up into his arms seemed to soothe her slightly, although her cries didn't stop. He chuckled lightly and gazed at his favourite mistake, the daughter they hadn't expected or planned for.

Adrienne wailed, tiny fists gripping his t-shirt, her tufty brown hair sticking up in all directions. He rocked her gently.

"This has got to stop, sweetheart," he said keeping his voice at a soothing tone. "You'll wake your brothers." He yawned again. "You better not have…" He sniffed suspiciously then brightened. "Good, you don't need changing again, hungry then maybe? Let's go down to the kitchen then shall we?"

Adrienne turned up the volume on her cries as Malcolm shuffled down the dark hallway, tip-toeing down the stairs and into the kitchen. Malcolm shushed her gently, praying her cries wouldn't wake his sons, clutching her a little tighter to his chest as he started to sort her out a bottle.

By the time he had a bottle in hand her cries had slowed to whimpers; he adjusted his hold on her and started to feed her, leaning against the kitchen counter and yawning. "6am," he muttered staring at the clock.

Thuds coming down the stairs alerted him to the awakening of one, or possibly both of his sons. Eddie bounded into the kitchen, his pyjamas askew, his face grinning at Malcolm with anticipation. "Hi!"

"Morning Eddie," Malcolm yawned again. "You're up early."

Eddie frowned. "No," he insisted, "You said when the big hand was on the six and the little hand was on the twelve I could come downstairs and watch cartoons until breakfast."

Malcolm smiled. "So I did."

"Gonna go watch cartoons," Eddie announced before disappearing, leaving Malcolm alone with Adrienne.

Malcolm leaned over the counter and switched on the kettle, before settling back into his previous position and glancing down at the bottle. The sound of Saturday morning cartoons drifted through the kitchen. Malcolm winced. The Tweenies.

"If my crew could see me now," he mumbled to himself chuckling slightly.

The sudden ringing of the video-phone shattered the eerily cheerful songs emanating from the television, but the sound was cut off almost immediately. Malcolm set Adrienne's now empty bottle down on the counter, shifted his hold on her and hurried into the living room.

Eddie turned as Malcolm came in. "It's for you," he said importantly. He whipped back round to face the video-phone screen and waved cheerfully. "Bye!"

The man on the screen smiled in amusement as Eddie shuffled off. Malcolm stared at the man and then smiled.

"Eddie, go wake mum up," he said sitting himself down. "Admiral Archer, what can I do for you?"

"Sorry for calling so early, but I see you were awake anyway." Archer's amused smile faded slightly and his gaze rested on the baby a moment before returning to Malcolm. "I'll get straight to the point, Malcolm. There's been an incident involving an attack on the Alva by an unknown ship." Archer paused and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It was a massacre, Malcolm, by the time the Magellan arrived the Alva was disabled, and most of her crew dead or dying from identical wounds." Archer sighed, and Malcolm suddenly became aware of how worn and exhausted the man looked. "Wounds identical to the ones you and Trip received on that Planet."

Malcolm's jaw dropped, Archer's gaze slid back to Adrienne again.

"We need you back here," Archer said simply. "The Alva wasn't the only ship to be attacked, Columbia was also attacked but luckily for them a Vulcan ship arrived to help." He paused and stared at Malcolm. "If these are the aliens from that Planet then only four people have ever encountered them, and one is lying in sickbay fighting for her life. We need you back here, now."

Malcolm nodded tersely.

"How long?" came Emma's voice from behind Malcolm. "How long will you need him for?"

Archer blinked and shrugged slightly. "I don't know, the situation is…complicated."

Emma took Adrienne from Malcolm and sighed. "It always is," she muttered to herself.

"I'll be right there, Admiral," said Malcolm flushing slightly.

Archer nodded and cut the connection.

"I have to go," Malcolm said simply, turning to his wife.

"I know," said Emma a trace of bitterness in her tone.

Malcolm rose to his feet and stared at her. "I'm sorry." He shrugged helplessly. "I –"

"Just get yourself sorted," Emma cut in, she sighed. "Go do your thing." She smiled slightly. "I'll even have tea ready for when you get in."

Malcolm leaned over and kissed her. "Fish and chips?" He asked teasingly.

Emma swatted him and shoved him in the direction of the door. Her face falling as she watched him leave.

0 0 0 0

Malcolm paced around the waiting room. He had arrived twenty minutes ago at Admiral Archer's office only to find the Admiral locked in a conference call. Neither Trip nor Joe Walters had put in an appearance yet, leaving Malcolm alone to contemplate the situation.

Where had the ship come from? They left only Isobel, that crazy psychopathic witch on the planet. Could one person do so much in only ten years? Malcolm shook his head slightly. The woman was mad, with only a few moments of frightening lucidity. She couldn't have orchestrated something like the building of a ship, not the mention the need of a crew to fly it…

"You're gonna wear a hole in the floor."

Malcolm stopped pacing and glanced at the speaker. Trip smiled tiredly and nodded in friendly greeting.

"Hey Mal."

"Good to see you, Trip," Malcolm returned the smile half heartedly. "He's locked in some sort of conference call at the moment." He indicated the office door. "Has he told you anything?"

Trip shook his head and sat down. "Just that the Alva came under attack and they think it was someone from the Planet." He leaned back in his chair. "Joe not here yet?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't know if they were able to get hold of him." He hesitated then moved to sit by Trip. "What do you think; do you think it's them? Do you think Isobel did something?"

Trip didn't reply descending the room into silence. He and Malcolm stared at each other, words of silent agreement passed between them and they both relaxed minutely.

Trip fiddled with the wedding ring on his finger. "The survivors are back at Starfleet medical now." He paused. "Only ten of them made it, Malcolm, ten out of a crew of fifty."

"They just left them to die," said Malcolm shaking his head as if trying to shake the visual images from his mind. He shivered; he remembered the pain of his own wound as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday, not fifteen years past. One glance at Trip told him the other man was remembering his injury as well, one hand rubbing at the site of the wound subconsciously.

_Hands were roaming all over his battered and bruised body, unnaturally cold hands that were probing every wound. His mind went on fast forward as he remembered the shuttle crash in all its technicolour glory, only to be brought forcibly from his scattered thoughts as a stabbing pain erupted from his stomach. He screamed out in agony as some sort of machine dug into his flesh, doing something that felt like it was trying to pull out all his internal organs, he screamed again before the blissful darkness took him…_

"Trip, Malcolm, come in."

Malcolm snapped out of his memories and nodded to Admiral Archer. Up close the Admiral seemed to look more exhausted than ever, the bright, harsh lighting of Starfleet headquarters doing nothing to soften the bags beneath his eyes.

"I wish this were under better circumstances," Archer sighed retreating to his office chair. "But we can't just ignore the situation. The second attack on the Colombia suggests that it wasn't just a localised incident, the attack was deemed ruthless and persistent." He ran a hand through his hair. "I received word that one of the survivors had woken, Lily Chambers, she's asking to see you both – Walters is with her." He leaned back in his chair looking troubled. "Two of the survivors died before reaching Starfleet medical."

"Out of ten only eight of them made it?" Trip asked in disbelief. "Eight out of a crew of fifty…"

"We need you both out there, we need to you to find some answers, find out why they're doing this," Archer stared at them both. "You two, Walters and Chambers are the only four people who've ever set foot on that Planet. You're the only ones who have the faintest idea about these people."

"When do we leave?" Malcolm asked immediately.

"As soon as humanly possible," Archer answered, "I've already recalled your crews from shore leave and alerted the engineering crews to have them both ready ASAP." He seemed to hesitate a moment. "All the ships have been alerted and ordered to retreat should they get the alien ship on their sensors. With all that's happening elsewhere Starfleet can't afford to lose anymore people."

The comm. on his desk beeped. Archer tapped it. "Archer here."

"Transport to Starfleet medical has arrived, Admiral."

"Thank you, we'll be right down. Archer out."

0 0 0 0

Malcolm tried not the shudder as he walked side by side with Trip down the crisp white hallways of Starfleet medical, the stench of antiseptic attacking from every surface. He glanced over at Trip, who frowned seemingly deep in thought.

Together with Archer they followed the nurse onto one of the wards, four beds on their right, four beds on their left, and machines beeping in careful rhythm. Wide, frightened eyes followed them as they moved towards the last bed flanked by a dishevelled figure in a grey t-shirt that read: 'How not to get caught: act dumb, deny everything, blame it on the flying monkeys'.

Malcolm shook his head. "Hello Joe."

Walters blinked and yawned. "Hello, sir, sir, and sir." He smiled feebly then looked back at Lily.

Her skin was ghostly pale, with tubes snaking around her; she looked young and small against the large bed. Walters' hand clasping hers only heightened the unhealthy paleness of her skin.

"Has she told you anything?" Archer asked him.

Walters shook his head. "No sir, the only thing she did was smile at my t-shirt and say 'its you' before passing out again." He stared at them looking troubled. "A few of the others started to wake up but flinched every time I said anything." He gripped Lily's hand a little tighter. "Lily," he said gently. "We're all here now, like you wanted."

It seemed like forever has passed before Lily finally opened her eyes, the second she saw them she flinched, her heart rate spiking on the monitors.

"Lily?" Walters glanced back at his superiors worriedly.

"Sorry," she mumbled her eyes settling on each in turn, "I forgot it was you. Not the other you." She shifted slightly and winced.

Archer moved in closer and smiled gently down at her. "How are you feeling, Lieutenant?"

Lily shrugged then winced again. "I need to tell you…" she trailed off vaguely.

"Who did this to you, Lily?" Malcolm prompted seeing she was about to drop off to sleep again and feeling guilty for every word he spoke.

She looked at him strangely and shuddered slightly. "Clones," she whispered tiredly, "Clones of the three of you. Relentless, merciless bastards." Her eyes closed but she forced them open again. "From the Planet." She shuddered again and winced, her face creasing in pain.

"Are you certain?" Archer asked hesitantly.

Lily's eyes took on a faraway look. "Positive."

Trip and Malcolm stared at each other in disbelief. More clones? More clones of them? How was that possible? Their clones had died they had watched Isobel shoot them! Malcolm clenched his fists focusing his gaze on the floor, so many people killed by aliens using his, Trip's and Walters' faces…

"Ok, Lieutenant," Archer soothed, "You just get some rest now, we can speak later."

"Walters," said Trip gently, "Say goodbye, we got work to do."

Walters reluctantly let go of Lily's hand and rose to his feet. For a moment all four of them stood watching her sleep, listening to the rhythmic hum of the machines around them.


	3. To Boldly Go

Out of ingrained habit Malcolm found himself heading for the armoury the second his feet hit the deck plating of the Intrepid. Engineers parted like the red sea as he passed them, all acutely aware of the look of unrestrained fury mingled with horror and disgust on his face. But upon entering the armoury he relaxed ,albeit minutely.

The familiarity of the place soothed his turbulent thoughts, and as he slowly inspected the torpedoes one by one he realised that it was out of more than peace of mind, his need to be in here.

"Captain Reed?"

Malcolm turned to see his first officer, Commander Mark Stanford, staring at him with mild concern. "Yes?"

Stanford offered him a small smile. "The crew's arriving and the engineers are clearing out. Also, Captain Tucker dropped us a line, he asked you to 'call him back'." He glanced at the torpedo Malcolm's hand was resting on.

"Thanks Stanford." For a moment Malcolm made no effort to move, simply staring at the torpedo. "We're going to be needing these before this mission is through." He sighed.

"You can rely on the armoury, Captain," said Stanford nodding his head.

Malcolm smirked. "I know I can." He took one last look around the armoury, then left shaking his head – the armoury hadn't been his domain for a long time now.

It didn't take long to reach his ready room. It appeared that many of the crewmembers had been warned by the engineers about getting in Malcolm's way - judging by the amount of people not quite meeting his gaze as they hurried past.

Once there he put a call through to Trip on the Enterprise. Almost instantly Trip's tired face appeared on screen. "Hey Malcolm."

Malcolm offered him a half smile. "Hello Trip."

"The Engineers have cleared off my ship, and my crew's almost all on and sorted," said Trip glancing at something offscreen. "How's things your end?"

"The engineers have just gone and the crew have started arriving, I estimate around 2 hours before everything is ready," said Malcolm.

"Well, I guess not all crews can be as efficient as mine," Trip said teasingly. "What with all the upgrades my baby's got are you sure the Intrepid'll be able to keep up?"

Malcolm cocked an eyebrow. "I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear those words come out of your mouth, Mr Tucker..."

Trip chuckled. "You gotta admit, Mal, the Enterprise is the fastest ship in the fleet, and the Intrepid well –"

"The Intrepid has the big guns," Malcolm interrupted, trying not to smirk. "All the better for pulling your arse out of the fire too, don't you think?" Malcolm suddenly paused and sobered.

Trip's grin slid off his face. "We'll be needing those guns."

Malcolm nodded and sighed. He heard the beep of a comm. from Trip's end of the communication. Trip glanced at the comm.

"I'll speak to you later, Malcolm," he said, tapping his comm. "Tucker here."

Malcolm nodded. "Speak to you later." He cut the communication and settled back in his chair. The mission ahead looming large in his thoughts, the coordination of two ships could prove extremely difficult and if the enemy ship used any form of jamming signal they would have to rely on the other having great instincts.

0 0 0 0

Malcolm stood gazing proudly round at his bridge crew. They all stared back at him waiting for him to speak.

"I'm sure you all have some idea as to the nature of this mission," Malcolm began in a loud clear voice, aware his voice was being projected around the ship. "For those of you who do not know the full details..., the Alva was attacked two days ago by an unknown enemy craft. The crew of the Alva were left for dead, and a few days after that the Colombia was attacked by a ship matching the same description and specifications, although they were saved by a passing Vulcan ship responding to their distress call." He paused and glanced round at his bridge crew again. All were looking at him bar Walters, who had fixed his gaze on his console, his jaw and fists clenched. "Our mission," Malcolm continued, "is to seek out the enemy ship, to find out what it's doing and why." He paused again. "In all, our mission is to find and stop the enemy ship – trace it back to its source and stop these people before anymore of our people go down. You are one of the finest crews in Starfleet and I have every faith in each one of you that this mission will be a success. We will make this mission a success. That is all," he ended.

"Captain?"

Malcolm turned to look at his communications officer, Ensign Sara Barrett, she smiled hesitantly. "We've just received a message from the Enterprise; they've already left spacedock."

Malcolm nodded. "Alright," he turned back to face the viewscreen once more. "Stevens, take us out then match course and speed with the Enterprise."

"Aye Captain."

Malcolm glanced back at Walters, he hadn't moved since Malcolm had finished his address to the crew. Walters saw Malcolm looking and jumped, obviously startled, before shooting Malcolm an apologetic look.

Malcolm continued to watch Walters listlessly tap at his console a moment before retreating to the Captain's Chair. Settling himself down he listen to the quiet hum of noise around him aware that with every passing minute the ship was getting closer and closer to the area where the Alva was attacked. The bridge crew seemed, by instinct, to know where they were headed, almost all studying their consoles with a tense alertness, just waiting for attack. Only Walters seemed unaffected by the tension on the bridge, simply frowning a moment as if thinking deeply before attacking his console with a renewed confidence and purpose.

Nearly and hour later they reached the first attack site. The ship had been towed away the day before, leaving a trail of debris in its wake, a marker for the dead crewmembers of the Alva. Everyone on the bridge stopped working to stare out at the debris, and for a moment Malcolm thought he heard one of them utter a short prayer.

"Walters, scan for warp trails," Malcolm ordered breaking the silence, "Stanford, keep your eyes on the sensors I don't want that ship sneaking up on us. Barrett, keep an ear out for anything that could be a distress call."

Immediately the spell of the attack site was broken and Malcolm's officers snapped to their duties. Malcolm rose to his feet feeling uneasy; the enemy ship was out there somewhere, perhaps already preying on its next victim, a lone almost helpless starship, preparing the machines.

Malcolm inwardly shuddered.

_Malcolm woke with a jerk. Hands were roaming all over his battered and bruised body, unnaturally cold hands that were probing every wound. His mind went on fast forward as he remembered the shuttle crash in all its technicolour glory only for his attention to be ripped away from his scattered thoughts by a sudden all encompassing realisation of intense agony._

"Captain."

_He struggled against the arms that held him down, screaming in agony, screaming nonsense, screaming to be released, he had to escape the pain, escape the hands holding him down, escape the clutches of the glinting machine hovering above him, slicing into his stomach with frightening precision._

"Captain Reed?"

Malcolm abruptly snapped out of his memory. "Yes?"

"I've scanned the surrounding area and-" Walters began.

"Captain! We're receiving a distress call," Barrett interrupted loudly. "It's difficult to make out, there's a lot of static…but I think it's from the Magellan – they're under attack!"

"Sir, the Enterprise is moving away," came Stanford's calm voice from behind Malcolm.

"Keep with the Enterprise," Malcolm barked, "Head for the location of the distress call."

"Aye Captain."

Malcolm glanced at Stanford. "Go to tactical alert." His first officer nodded tersely.

Over on the Enterprise Trip turned to his tactical officer. "Is the Intrepid following?"

"Yessir. They're powering weapons."

Trip nodded in satisfaction. "Go to tactical alert." He tapped the comm. on his chair. "Tucker to Engineering."

"Baker here."

"Chief, I'm gonna need everything she's got, keep an eye out for problems in the core we can't afford a burn out – we can't lose another ship."

"It isn't going to be easy, Captain, we can't hold this speed for long."

"Understood, do your best. Tucker out." Trip turned to his helm officer. "ETA?"

"At our current speed 15 minutes."

Trip nodded and rose to his feet pacing the bridge.

"Sir, what about the Intrepid? They can't match pace with us at this speed."

Trip paused in his pacing. "Don't worry about the Intrepid, they'll get there." He stared out at the viewscreen. "Has the Magellan responded to our hails yet?"

The comm. officer shook her head. "No sir, I'm just getting the distress call repeated over and over."

Trip clenched his fists and resumed his pacing. Fifteen minutes was going to feel like an eternity.


	4. Bringin' in the Big Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, there is some gore in this chapter. Not massive amounts, but its there.

The first time Trip saw the alien ship, he had to admit it was beautiful, sleek curved lines defining every soft edge, the shiny metal surface unmarred by windows or markings. Although instant guilt followed the thought.

They were too late.

The ship had already docked with the Magellan, no doubt many of the Magellan's crew had already been scarred for life, dumped back aboard the ship unconscious and slowly dying as their blood leaked across the floor.

"The enemy ship is breaking away from the Magellan, sir," Lieutenant Rose called to him from helm.

"Scan both ships for lifesigns," Trip ordered, "Get shields up and prepare to fire on that ship the second it disengages from the Magellan."

"Scans show 50 lifesigns aboard the Magellan," said Ensign Madison from the science console. "Unable to get a reading off the enemy ship."

"Captain, the Magellan has a crew compliment of at least 80," Trip's tactical officer, Lieutenant Jones piped up.

"They've got our people on board," Trip said clenching his fists. "I want that ship disabled! Target their engines!"

Trip watched as the enemy ship fluidly disengaged from the Magellan. _We've got you now._ But less than 10 seconds he found himself being thrown to the floor by a blast that rocked the Enterprise violently.

"How they get a shot off so fast?" Madison asked worriedly, rubbing her head from where it had bounced off her console.

"Return fire!" Trip ordered shoving himself back to his feet. He saw Jones stabbing at his console in frustration.

"They're too quick for us, Captain," Jones ground out in frustration.

"Keep trying, they've got our people," Trip snapped back.

Another blast rocked the ship. "Shields down to 75 percent!"

"We have a hit!" Jones cried triumphantly, and then his face fell. "Their shields are holding."

Trip gripped hold on of the Captains chair.

"Captain, the enemy ship is moving away!"

"After it and keep firing!" Trip ordered.

"They're coming about, sir! Their shields are holding –"

"Captain!" Madison called. "Their shielding is fluctuating enough that I can get a reading off the enemy ship. I'm reading approximately 120…" She hesitated. "120 human lifesigns."

"The Intrepid's here!"

0 0 0 0

Malcolm gave a grim smile as the enemy ship appeared on his viewscreen. "Fire at will, Stanford."

"Wait, Captain!" Barrett cried. "I'm receiving a coded message from the Enterprise – the enemy ship has our people aboard!"

Malcolm whipped round to face Stanford. "Target their weapons systems and engines – I want that ship disabled!"

"The enemy ship is bearing down on the Enterprise," Walters reported tersely. "The Enterprise's shields are down to 50 percent."

"Helm, get us in closer," Malcolm barked, "Detract their attention from the Enterprise. Stanford give 'em all we've got!"

Malcolm felt a swell of pride as his officers snapped to his orders, working efficiently in tandem with each other as the enemy ship loomed large on the viewscreen.

"It's not working, sir," said Stevens, his fingers flying over his console. "The enemy ship isn't letting up on the Enterprise."

"Captain! The Enterprise has lost shields!"

Not for the first time Malcolm's fingers itched to use the tactical console as he watched the fight playing out on the viewscreen, the Enterprise was quick but the enemy ship was relentless even against the barrage of firepower from the Intrepid.

"The Enterprise has lost weapons!"

Malcolm glanced at Stanford. Stanford nodded. "I'm on it, Captain."

"They aren't moving fast enough," said Stevens worriedly.

"Get us in between those ships," said Malcolm firmly.

Stanford gave a cry of delight. "The enemy ship has lost shields, sir!"

Malcolm smirked. "Disable that ship, Commander."

Malcolm stood firm as the ship rocked violently around him. "Stanford…"

Stanford's hands were almost a blur on the console as the ship rocked again. Walters' calm tone rang across the bridge. "Shields are down to 85 percent."

"They've lost weapons!"

"The enemy ship is trying to move off, Captain," said Stevens.

"Keep on them, Lieutenant!" Malcolm ordered. "Stanford – their engines!"

"Working on it, Captain," Stanford called back.

It seemed like almost an eternity has passed before Stanford let out a triumphant cry. "Their engines are down!"

"Receiving a message from the Enterprise," said Barrett shaking slightly.

"Onscreen."

The bridge of the Enterprise appeared on the viewscreen, consoles were sparking, some of the officers seemed barely on their feet, blinking woozily at their consoles. Trip nodded to the bridge crew of the Intrepid smiling grimly, ignoring the trickle of blood running down from a gash on his temple.

 _"You took your time, didn't ya?"_ said Trip relief colouring his tone. He paused and glanced round his bridge. _"I suggest taking teams over to the enemy ship – we gotta get our people back."_

"Agreed," Malcolm nodded, "Medical and security teams need to be dispatched to the Magellan as well, there could still be some of the enemy aboard."

Trip glanced round his bridge again and sighed. _"I'll take the Magellan."_

Malcolm nodded again. "Understood, let us know if you need any help with repairs."

 _"Will do,"_ said Trip. _"Good luck."_

The bridge of the Enterprise vanished off the viewscreen. Malcolm pulled his uniform straight. "Stanford, arrange two security details to be ready for transport, and the MACOs to meet me in the shuttlebay –"

"You're going, sir?" Stanford asked. "Wouldn't it be better if –"

Malcolm fixed Stanford with a cold stare. "Commander Stanford, you have your orders."

Stanford nodded subdued. "Yessir."

Malcolm almost smiled at Stanford's masked frustration, it reminded him of his own futile attempts to keep Captain Archer and the crew safe – of course now he was on the other side of the console, so to speak, he understood why Captain Archer had insisted on being at the head of many away missions.

"Stanford, you're with me, Walters you have the bridge," said Malcolm before turning on his heel and walking into the turbo-lift.

0 0 0 0

Trip stepped onto the Magellan, weapon gripped tightly in his hands, he almost slipped and he moved to make way for the security team. Glancing down to see what he had slipped on he shuddered.

Blood.

He could see it everywhere now, trails of blood mingling on the floor from where crewmembers had been dragged back from the enemy ship. He checked the setting on his phase pistol again.

Quiet moans caught their attention. A young woman leaning against one of the walls further down the corridor, the blood trail down the wall suggested she had been thrown back onto the ship – possibly when the Enterprise arrived and the enemy realised they needed to disengage.

Medics raced forward to her, whispering soothing words, applying bandages, assuring her she was safe now.

The woman wept softly, groaning as the medics applied pressure to the wound.

"Captain," Jones whispered softly. "We got company."

Trip crouched down in front of the medics, watching as the security team positioned themselves around the corridor. Firm footfalls echoed down the corridor, getting louder with each passing moment.

Two identical figures stepped into view, their auburn hair highlighted with blood, dull green eyes staring out at the mass of weapons from emotionless faces.

"Walters," Trip breathed hesitating for a split second trying to separate the Joe Walters he knew from the two copies before him.

The security team didn't hesitate for a second leading to the clones crumpling wordlessly to the ground moments later. Trip sighed and looked back to the medics. "How is she?"

"Stable," the nearest one replied grimly. "She'll hold for a couple of hours – tops."

Trip pulled a communicator from his pocket. "Tucker to Enteprise."

_"Breschov here, Captain."_

"Michael, I need to you to send a request for aid to Starfleet, we've got a lot of wounded here."

_"Straight away, Captain. Breschov out."_

Trip shoved the communicator back in his pocket and rose to his feet. "C'mon, we've got work to do."

0 0 0 0

"Are you sure you know how to use this, sir?" asked one of the MACOs doubtfully eyeing the phase rifle in his hand.

Malcolm briefly considered blowing the man's head off with the rifle, but that would be rather... very counterproductive. He settled on a grimace and a terse, "Look up my service record," followed by a much quieter, "moron!"

The poor MACO looked momentarily bewildered as the others started chuckling quietly. One of the other MACO's eventually took pity on him and whispered "Cap'n Reed's an Armoury man."

"Oh." The MACO flushed. "Sorry Captain, I…uh…I didn't know."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow but said nothing as the shuttlepod was brought in to dock with the ship. He nodded to the others around him. "Let's go find our people."


	5. The PITT

The airlock door opened. Bodies fell to the ground, one, two, three, four. Malcolm stepped out staring at the bodies lying all around him in distaste, two clones of him, a clone of Trip, and a clone of Walters. He swore quietly as he lifted up one of the clones weapons.

"Captain?"

Malcolm glanced round at the men around him. "Word to the wise – don't get shot, these things'll punch a fist sized hole through you."

Murmurs of acknowledgement ran through the group. Malcolm motioned for the head of the group to start moving down the corridor ahead of them.

The ship was almost silent save for the quiet hum in the background that suggested the movement and conversation of people elsewhere in the ship.

"Do we know how many of them were brought here?" Stanford asked Malcolm, his voice barely audible as they moved swiftly down the seemingly endless corridor.

Malcolm shook his head.

Jacobs at the head of the group suddenly dropped down firing his weapon. Six clones came round the corner all firing their weapons with frighteningly accurate precision. Malcolm dived to the ground just as a shot skimmed his head, rolling to the side and cursing as he brought his rifle up to return fire.

"You will be recycled."

Malcolm heard a sharp hiss of pain off to his left and glanced over to see the young MACO from earlier with his hand clamped over a heavily bleeding wound on his arm. Malcolm took aimed and fired at the nearest clone watching in relief as his shot hit home and the last clone went down.

Malcolm whipped out his communicator from his pocket. "Reed to the Intrepid."

"Barrett here Captain."

"Tell Parsons to transport the rest of the team over to my position – the area's clear."

"Yessir."

"Have medical teams waiting on standby. Reed out."

Malcolm shoved his communicator back into his pocket. "Make space, the others are coming." He stepped back and waited, mere seconds later another security team transported in, weapons at the ready.

"Listen up," Malcolm said to the team. "We do this quick and fast, our objective is to get the survivors of the Magellan back to the Intrepid, taking over the ship is a secondary goal to that – understand? If you see someone in a grey uniform with white markings on the sleeve, shoot 'em, I don't care who it looks like."

The men around him nodded.

"Let's move out." Malcolm raised his rifle again as Stanford took point and started moving swiftly down the corridor.

After only a few metres Stanford raised his hand and the team came to a halt behind him, hidden beside a doorway. Malcolm skirted his way to the fore of the group and cursed silently as he realised what had caused Stanford to stop.

Clones.

At least fifty clones pouring into the large room before them from corridors all around. Their boots beat a hideous rhythm as they assembled in the large room, their weapons raised, their faces emotionless.

"Grenades?" Malcolm mouthed to Stanford.

Stanford shook his head. Cursing fluently under his breath Malcolm glanced back at his men, catching sight of a phase pistol. He gestured for it. Stanford stared at him a moment before grinning in understanding.

Malcolm set the phase pistol to overload, gestured for the men to stand ready, then threw it into the room.

Fifty sets of eyes followed the phase pistol as it arced gracefully through the air , then as one fired at the doorway a split second before the pistol exploded. Malcolm found himself stumbling backwards as the combined shots from the clones obliterated a section of the doorway.

Instantly he found himself being hauled to his feet as more shots from the remaining clones started hitting the corridor wall.

Inside the room was chaos, the smell of burning flesh rose from every surface, bodies strewn about some incomplete. Still living clones moaned in agony as they fired, no minds to help them comprehend their pain.

Malcolm saw a clone of himself, stumbling around firing haphazardly at any moving object, burns down one side of his body, face contorted in pain. Empty eyes stared at Malcolm.

Malcolm forced himself to look as he fired, reminding himself that the person before him using his face was merely a shell with programmed instructions. He found himself suddenly being jerked backwards and watched in mild surprise a shot skimmed past him.

"You're welcome, sir," said Stanford dryly, grinning as he gave return fire.

A loud screamed suddenly ripped through the air, Malcolm stared all round the room checking the face of each man in turn before turning to Stanford.

"The Magellan Crew." Stanford breathed.

Malcolm threw his arm in the direction the scream had come from. "Move out, we're getting close!" He gave covering fire as more clones entered the room, allowing Stanford and the men to start running for the Magellan survivors.

Even as his men ran past him, Malcolm knew something wasn't right. Three clones had just entered the room but the one at the head of the group stared at him then smiled.

"You cannot stop the people," the man called hoarsely. "You should know this best of all. Take this ship and more will come. The people already have the data and recordings; already our civilisation is being rebuilt, being transferred into new unique bodies." He raised his weapon and pointed it at Malcolm. "The people will rule again."

All three clones fired as one, Malcolm rolled to the side wincing as shards exploded out from the wall behind him. He took aim and fired dodging through the doorway behind him.

"We will mark your people, your faces shall become ours – the people will rule!"

Malcolm took aim through the doorway and fired. The smiling clone hit the ground. "Not today they won't." He ducked as the remaining clone fired the shot smashing into the doorframe showering him with shards.

He dived to the ground and quickly took out the final clone before flipping back to his feet and groaning quietly as several muscles protested. "I'm getting too old for this crap," he muttered to himself as he set off down the corridor.

The smell of blood assaulted his senses as he rounded a corner almost crashing into one of his team leaning against the wall, a pool on vomit before him.

Malcolm stared into the room before him.

They had found the missing crewmembers.

Stanford turned to look at him as Malcolm entered the room. "It's a blood bath, sir," he muttered his voice hollow. He swallowed hard, his face pale as he stared around at all the people moaning in agony, some merely whimpering, others unconscious and a few already dead. Still machines dripping blood onto the red floor.

But one, one caught his attention. It was the Captain of the Magellan. Malcolm's expression didn't flicker once as he took in the machine the man was strapped to, his arms, legs, and body tightly restrained, a machine surrounding his head with wires issuing out of it to the surrounding machines that were rapidly beeping and listing off data.

What had they done to him?

"We daren't try and get him out, Captain," said one of the security team his eyes darting nervously from person to person.

"Its doing something to his mind," a hoarse murmured faintly.

Malcolm looked down trying to find the source of the voice. It was a young woman, her tired agonised eyes boring into his. Malcolm knelt down to her level. "Do you have any idea what its doing? Did they do it to anyone else?"

The young woman gently shook her head. "Just him." She whimpered. "The Captain was screaming at first…" She started to sob, her bloody hands grabbing hold of Malcolm's uniform as she rested her head against him.

"We're going to get you out," said Malcolm, trying not to flinch away from her touch. Finally he gently untangled her hands from his uniform and rose to his feet, repeating louder. "We're going to get you all out, - I promise." He turned to his team gesturing for the more seasoned officers to nudge the other frozen members of their team. "Do what you can for them till we get them to the medics."

Malcolm pulled the communicator from his pocket. "Reed to Intrepid."

"Barrett here sir."

"Warn sickbay that we have at least thirty seriously injured, nine already dead and…one unknown. " Malcolm paused looking away from the devastation before him. "Have transporters ready to start beaming up the survivors – I'll send the coordinates. Also have Walters, two science personnel and at least one medic beam over. We've a trapped man that needs freeing."

"Understood, Captain."

Malcolm tucked away his communicator. He stared at Stanford, whose fingers beat a heavy rhythm on his weapon. Stanford met Malcolm's gaze.

"Permission to start clearing the ship, sir," Stanford said darkly.

Malcolm nodded "See if you can find their database; inform me if you find anything interesting." Stanford nodded in response and Malcolm watched the security team and the MACOs move off after him.

0 0 0 0

Malcolm watched as the last of the survivors were transported to the Enterprise glad that he was finally able to tear his eyes away from the bloody room, but feeling guilty as he did so, knowing Walters and Barnes were still working inside.

Sighing Malcolm turned back into the room, marvelling at how intensely the scientists were examining the machine, completely oblivious to the room around them. "Know what that machine does, Joe?"

Walters looked up, startled, from the machinery he was probing. "What? Oh right, the machine." He gestured Malcolm over. "It's absolutely fascinating in a sick kind of perverse way, the level of technology – it's like nothing I've ever seen. No wonder this PIT was so hard to take down if this is the level of technology they –"

"PIT?" Malcolm interrupted him.

"Pregnant Isosceles Triangle," Walters shrugged focusing studiously on the machine. "It's what the ship looks like."

Malcolm stared at him. "Just tell me what the machine does, leave the engineers to look at the PIT –" He mentally cursed whilst glaring at Walters. "The ship later."

Walters face fell slightly as he turned back to the machine. "I think..." he said slowly. "That is was – in effect – downloading…copying the contents of Captain Reynolds mind." He paused and looked back at Malcolm again. "Who needs torture when you can just strap 'em down and copy all the information from their mind by force." He paused again and gestured to the quiet young man working steadily beside him. "Barnes here reckons it was transmitting the information as they 'downloaded' it from Reynolds. I'm inclined to agree with him. I think we've managed to stop the transmission but the level of this tech – it's hard to tell. We could probably do with Keller coming down to have a look as well."

Malcolm's jaw dropped slightly remembering the blank expression on Reynolds face after they had successfully gotten him out the machine. Was anything of Reynolds left? How much had they taken from his mind?

"The enemy probably knows most of our standard tactics, secure comm. frequencies, anything Reynolds knows they probably now know," said Walters shaking his head.

Another thought suddenly flitted across Malcolm's mind. "If they did this to Reynolds there's every chance they did it to Hathaway on the Alva." He paused then grabbed the machine. "Are you sure this was transmitting?"

"There's no way to be sure," Barnes spoke up meekly. "It's hard to tell, Captain."

Malcolm stared at him and was about to reply but was cut off by the chirp of his communicator. "Stanford to Reed."

"Reed here."

"Sir, we've found the database."


	6. Two Captains and an Admiral

Trip sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands. The Magellan… he had seen things he knew would haunt his nightmares for years to come, people crying out in agony reaching for him, bodies draped over each other from when they had been clumsily discarded by the clones.

Trip shuddered. The clones. They had only found fifteen clones in total wandering aimlessly round the Magellan but with every shot Trip had to remind himself it wasn't Malcolm he was shooting, it wasn't Joe Walters, it wasn't _himself_. He had seen himself die at least five times over on the Magellan, had seen the look on his own face as the clones hit the floor.

A short communiqué from the Intrepid had informed them that thirty-one survivors had been rescued from the PIT (something they had assumed was the enemy vessel) and that nine had died before they could reach them.

Thirty-one. Trip scrubbed his face with his hand. Combine that with the numbers of survivors they had taken from the Magellan itself and that led to a loss of only seventeen lives. They hadn't arrived in time to save them all, but at least they had managed to save the majority.

He sighed and got to his feet. He needed a shower, needed to wash away what he'd seen.

And he needed to know what had happened on the enemy ship.

Trip stared in the direction of his bathroom longingly before turning to go sit down at his desk. He contacted Malcolm.

Malcolm's tired, bloodied, dirty face appeared on the monitor. Trip stared worriedly at him but attempted to smile. "PIT, Malcolm?"

Malcolm waved his hand dismissively. _"Joe came up with it."_

"Ahh," Trip nodded in understanding. "Dare I ask what it means?"

 _"Pregnant Isosceles Triangle."_ Malcolm chuckled mirthlessly pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You alright, Mal?"

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair and sighed. _"I'm fine."_ He couldn't quite seem to look Trip in the eye, his gaze fixed on his hands. _"We got to most of them in time. But,"_ He paused. _"They strapped Captain Reynolds into some sort of machine – downloaded his mind, memories. We got him out but a good chunk of information had been transferred already. It's a good bet they did the same thing to Hathaway…probably the same thing to us…"_

"So they know all that the two Captains know," Trip said numbly. "It could be worse."

 _"At least we have some information on them,"_ said Malcolm managing a half smile. _"Stanford found their database; I've got Barrett working on translating it. It's something anyway."_

"Knowing why they're taking out our people would be better," Trip sighed.

Malcolm stared at something off screen his face creased in concentration. _"We will mark your people, your faces shall become ours… That's what the clone said to me,"_ he said finally, after a few minutes pause.

Trip's jaw dropped. "Are you suggesting that they're… _replacing_ us?"

 _"I'm suggesting,"_ said Malcolm evenly, _"that it's a distinct possibility."_

Trip closed his eyes. "This is not looking good."

Malcolm snorted. _"It was never looking good. But now we know these people have the tactical, engineering – all the knowledge of at least four members of Starfleet, plus the DNA of at least 130 people – not including us and Joe. Who knows if they've hit any other ships in the area? It took no less than two of our ships to take down just one of their ships, three if you take into account the possible damage the Magellan inflicted before we arrived."_ He inhaled sharply.

_"I think we're heading for War."_

0 0 0 0

Trip worked steadily glad for something to focus on even if it was only something minor. His Chief of Engineering Meredith Baker hadn't even batted an eye when Trip asked him if there was something he could help with. Baker knew him well.

He should have been resting, that much even he could figure out. With everything that had happened his thoughts were too muddled and frenzied for him even to consider sleep.

_'I think we're heading for War'_

Malcolm's words echoed in his head, interweaving with his thoughts. War. Even as Malcolm said it Trip knew he was right.

War.

The tool in his hand slipped and he cut himself. Cursing he dropped the tool glaring at the tiny cut on his hand.

"Everything alright there, Captain?"

"It's fine, Chief," Trip snapped.

"If it helps any Enterprise'll be sorted in about an hour," Baker patted the wall fondly before crouching down, grabbing the fallen tool and holding it out to Trip.

Trip sighed and took the tool. "It does, thanks Chief."

The comm. beeped. _"Bridge to Captain Tucker."_

Trip rose to his feet wincing as his knees popped. He tapped the comm. "Tucker here."

_"Sir, a transport ship has arrived to take the survivors back to Earth."_

"Ok, I'm on my way. Tucker out."

Trip turned back to Baker and held out the tool ruefully. Baker accepted it then picked up working on what Trip had been trying to fix. "See you later, Captain."

Trip walked quickly through the bowels of engineering feeling relieved. Soon the survivors would be taken off his ship and back to Earth where they could be given the care they needed, and then he could get back to the matter at hand.

0 0 0 0

Malcolm leaned over Ensign Barrett's shoulder staring at her monitor. "How's that translation coming?"

Barrett glanced back at him. "Frustratingly slow, sir. Every time I think I've cracked it…" She trailed off then turned back to her work. "I think I'm almost there though, sir."

Malcolm nodded. "If you need help, there's –"

"I'm fine, Captain," Barrett interrupted him. "I'll have this done asap."

"Alright, Ensign," said Malcolm straightening up, "let me know when you're done."

He returned to his chair, surveying his bridge crew as they worked. All signs indicated to him that this situation was going to end in war, and judging by the firepower of one of the enemy ships, a war that at best would lead to a Starfleet victory with heavy casualties, and at worst, would leave behind nothing at all. Of course that all depended on…The People's ...intentions, but judging from their behaviour so far Malcolm assumed that they weren't looking for friendship.

But if it came to it, were his crew ready for war?

"Captain Reed," Barrett interrupted his thoughts. "There's a message coming through from Starfleet, Admiral Archer is requesting to speak with you."

"Patch it through to my ready room," said Malcolm rising to his feet.

He walked quickly to the ready room, sliding into his desk chair and accepting the communication. Archer's face appeared on the monitor. "Admiral Archer."

Archer nodded to him. _"One minute, Malcolm, just waiting for Trip."_

Moments later the screen split in two as Trip's face appeared beside Archer's.

Trip attempted a smile. _"Hey."_

 _"You two look like hell,"_ said Archer gently.

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair shrugging slightly. "It's been a long 48 hours."

Archer glanced down at the padd in his hand. _"That, I can understand. We received word from the support ship that all the survivors were transferred successfully. Good work."_

Malcolm shifted awkwardly and watched as Trip suddenly seemed to find the wall behind the monitor fascinating.

 _"We did what we had to, Admiral,"_ Trip mumbled.

Archer sighed and leaned back in his chair. _"So, what happened?"_

 _"By the time we got there, the Magellan was already disabled,"_ Trip began.

Malcolm sat back patiently as Trip recounted what had happened during the initial fire fight, chipping in every so often to add in some detail Trip missed.

 _"After the enemy ship was disabled, I took a team over to the Magellan, and Malcolm's crew boarded the enemy ship,"_ Trip ended, he glanced at Malcolm. _"There were a few clones left aboard the Magellan but we took them out pretty quick."_ He paused. _"It was a blood bath, Jon. They'd just left the crew to die, most of 'em were still conscious, a couple had tried to get to sickbay for supplies…"_ he trailed off.

Malcolm watched as Archer momentarily closed his eyes before staring straight at him. _"What about the enemy ship?"_

Malcolm inhaled sharply. "I took a team in, cleared the area near the docking hatch then had reinforcements beam over." He hesitated remembering the long, unforgiving, metallic corridors stretching out before him. "At first there was little resistance from the clones, but then more started to arrive, almost like the entire clone crew were being told to take us out." He hesitated again. "After that it was just a matter of fighting our way through to find the survivors. We found them because we heard one of them scream, my team took off while I covered their rear. Before I could follow I met a clone with…personality. He told me 'We will mark your people, your faces shall become ours'. He started firing and I had no choice but to take him down."

 _"Your faces shall become ours,"_ Archer repeated slowly.

 _"It sounds like they're out to replace us,"_ said Trip shaking his head.

 _"If they were trying to replace us why bother returning the,"_ Archer winced, _"the originals? It doesn't make sense."_

"Whatever they're trying to do, they aren't concerned about being discreet," said Malcolm, he saw Trip momentarily close his eyes and wondered what the other was thinking of. Probably the Magellan, Malcolm decided. "They need us for something, they're targeting us, and us alone. Unless I'm mistaken they haven't attacked any other species – that we know of."

Archer nodded in agreement. _"So what happened after you took out the… talking clone?"_

"Well, after that we found the survivors," Malcolm sighed. "It wasn't a pretty sight… those people they…" He paused and straightened his uniform before continuing. "With the exception of Captain Reynolds they were all piled up around the room. But Reynolds was plugged into some sort of machine, wires going into his head. Walters thinks it was, for lack of a better word, downloading information from his brain. We think we stopped it transferring but there's no way of telling how much information they got from him."

 _"We reckon there's a good chance they did the same thing to Hathaway on the Alva,"_ said Trip, _"and to us when they took us the first time."_

At Trip's words, Malcolm's hand subconsciously moved to rest over the scar on his side, but Malcolm moved it away again after noticing Trip was doing the same thing. Archer appeared not to have noticed, frowning to himself.

 _"They have the knowledge of four separate Starfleet personnel, they have studied in depth clones of you two, they have made an army of clones from DNA they took from you two and Walters, they've attacked our ships,"_ Archer's face hardened. _"They've killed and purposefully hurt our people."_

"Admiral, we are very quickly running out of options," said Malcolm shaking his head. "We managed to get access to their database – I've got people working on it now but it's taking time, time we don't have – these people could already be deploying more ships to attack."

Archer sighed heavily. _"I need to discuss it with the others, in meantime gentlemen, be on the lookout, make the database a priority, and… keep yourselves safe."_

Malcolm nodded, suddenly noticing how old Archer was looking, none of them were exactly young anymore, but at that moment Archer looked old beyond his years like the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders.

 _"Will do, Admiral,"_ Trip offered Archer a small smile.

Archer nodded once and closed the communication. Trip followed suit and Malcolm found himself staring at a blank screen lost in his thoughts.


	7. Plans In Motion

Malcolm paced his quarters fretfully, his mind racing as he considered the events of the past few hours. After he and Trip had updated Archer on what had been happening not a lot of time had passed before Archer got back in touch to let them know of their decision.

It was as he feared.

Starfleet was going to war with The People.

Malcolm stopped pacing, leaned over the computer on his desk and pressed a few commands. "Computer, begin recording." He resumed his pacing. "Emma, you probably know by now we're going to war with the people who've been attacking our ships…Computer, pause." He sighed. "Computer, delete that sentence." He momentarily paused in his pacing lost in thought. "Computer, resume recording. Emma, this isn't easy for me to say but it looks like I'm not going to be home anytime soon. So don't keep those fish and chips warm for me – computer, cancel recording."

Malcolm sat down on his bed and ran a tired hand through his hair, glancing at the clock on the wall. 2am. He stared at it a while longer, watching the numbers slowly change before his thoughts were interrupted by loud and frenzied knocking at his door. Frowning Malcolm quickly rose to his feet and opened the door to reveal Joe Walters, wearing extremely bright lime green pyjamas, his red hair spiking off in several directions and staring at Malcolm with wide eyes.

"Joe?" Malcolm asked staring at the young officer with concern.

"I've had an idea!" Walters blurted out.

"Joe, it's ten past two in the morning," said Malcolm sighing.

Walters waved his hand dismissively. "I know bu –" He paused. "Ten past two in the morning? Really?"

Malcolm resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. "Just tell me what your idea is."

"We go to the planet," Walters announced proudly. "Me, you and Captain Tucker go undercover on the planet – we pose as our own clones! We take the PIT; make our way through the base and shut 'em down at the source!"

"We can't take the PIT," said Malcolm shaking his head, "It's the biggest breakthrough we've had so far with these people, we can't afford to lose that much vital information. Not to mention in all likelihood the PIT recorded that it was taken over by us."

"We could take a copy of their database," Walters argued, "I'm sure we could rig up some sort of virus to wipe some of their recordings. With the PIT reaching the planet's surface would be easy." He paused a moment deep in thought. "Our biggest issue would be passing for our own clones, but some hair dye would sort that out."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Hair dye?"

"This could work, Captain, it could really work," said Walters a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Better risk three people than risk losing another two ships to the enemy, don't you think?" He stared at Malcolm beseechingly. "If we could go in, get them now, we could avoid an all out war. We could put a dent in their operations at the very least, get some information on their key systems –"

"I'm very aware of the possible benefits," Malcolm interrupted firmly. "I'll talk this through in the morning…err, later on in the morning with Captain Tucker."

"So you think it could work?" Walters asked his expression brightening.

"It has potential," Malcolm said nodding, "but we need to talk it through at more hospitable hour, weigh up the pros and cons."

Walters smiled. "Thank you, sir." He stood in the doorway staring at Malcolm expectantly.

"Go back to bed, Joe," Malcolm ordered firmly. He watched as Joe wandered away before closing his door and turning back to his bed, his mind ticking over the possibilities of Walter's idea.

0 0 0 0

Trip stared at Malcolm uncertainly, self consciously running a hand through his hair. "We can't pass for our own clones, Mal; it's been fifteen years since we were cloned."

From the monitor Trip could see Malcolm nodding hesitantly. _"True,"_ he acquiesced. _"But really not that much has changed."_

Trip shot Malcolm a doubtful look. "You mean aside from the grey hair, the other general signs that indicate our age, not to mention very distinctive scars."

 _"We could use hair dye,"_ said Malcolm seriously. _"We aren't all that different from how we were, just a little older; once we're down on the planet in their uniforms we'll be indistinguishable from everyone else – they won't be looking that hard at every single clone, there's hundreds of them."_

Trip sighed mulling over Malcolm's words. "This could be a very short trip, Mal. A hundred things could go wrong."

 _"I know,"_ said Malcolm levelly. _"But I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to stop them, if these people reach Earth there will be no one left – and you and I both know that unless their fleet is small we don't stand much of a chance at all."_

Trip met Malcolm's gaze and held it. "Ok," said Trip finally. "We need to talk to Jon; after all we would be taking the only vital piece of their technology we've found so far."

 _"I'll get my team working on the PIT controls, a copy of the database, getting hold of their uniforms and some hair dye,"_ said Malcolm.

"I'll send some of my lot over to help and contact Jon. I'll speak to the Doc too, see if she has any ideas about…reversing the agin' process."

_"Let me know what happens."_

Trip nodded. "You too." He cut the communication and rose to his feet. He walked into the bathroom and peered closely at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes taking in the liberal sprinkling of grey hair, the lines on his face, the small scar above his eyebrow from when he'd smacked his head on a table after getting completely hammered on his stag night.

Walters' idea was insane.

But maybe they needed something insane.

0 0 0 0

It had been almost six hours since his initial discussion with Trip, and Malcolm found himself restlessly moving through his ship checking on the progress of his team.

But as he walked the corridors towards Engineering he suddenly realised he was being followed. He sighed. "What is it, Mark?" He paused and turned round.

Stanford looked a little put out. "You always know it's me," he muttered darkly before clearing his throat and straightening. "Sir, if you send the Intrepid back with the Enterprise to defend Earth then who's going to be here to help you get back?"

"I would rather have the best ship in Starfleet back defending Earth rather than being useless waiting for three people," said Malcolm firmly. "I trust you to take care of my ship, Mark." He smiled. "We can't let the Enterprise take all the glory; Captain Tucker would never let me hear the end of it."

Stanford smirked and nodded. "Alright. With respect I still think you're insane, sir."

"Thanks," said Malcolm wryly, he turned and started to walk towards engineering again.

"Sir," Stanford called after him. "We'll do you proud."

Malcolm smiled and carried on walking. Moments later he found himself in engineering with various engineers working busily around him. He tapped the nearest one on the shoulder. "Is Lieutenant Keller around?"

The engineer blinked at him owlishly. "Yessir, she's just got back from the PIT. She's in her office."

"Thanks." Malcolm made his way through the bowels of Engineering to the small office located in the corner, as he neared the office the sound of someone ranting within gained volume.

"- doubting my abilities, mocking me. I'll give him 'princess' when I stick my spanner right up his – oh. Hello, Captain." Anna Keller smiled sheepishly at him.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Everything ok on the PIT?"

"As well as can be expected," said Anna tightly, adjusting her uniform. "Some minor difficulties in getting the engines back online, and there's not a hope in hell you'll have weapons because their weapons systems are so many light-years ahead of us it's not even funny."

"But it'll fly?" Malcolm asked her.

"On spit and prayers, but yeah, it should fly." She glanced darkly at the PADD on her desk. "That's if Meredith doesn't mess around with it."

"Meredith?" Malcolm frowned slightly trying to place the name.

"Commander Baker, Captain," said Anna scowling. "It wasn't…the easiest thing working with him."

Malcolm nodded in understanding. "He called you Anastasia." He paused remembering her earlier words. "And Princess."

Anna nodded her face like thunder. "But then he didn't take too kindly to being called Meredith."

Malcolm sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell me you didn't start a fight with each other."

"Of course not, Captain," said Anna shocked. "What's the point in wrecking all our hard work on those engines by slamming his smug face into them?"

Malcolm nodded resisting the urge to laugh. "Right, so if Baker doesn't mess with what you've done then this thing'll get us to the planet."

"On spit and prayers, sir."

"Spit and prayers'll have to do," said Malcolm. "I'll need you to give me a crash course in driving the damn thing later."

"No problem." She gave him a sideways look. "You going to get your hair done now, Captain?"

Malcolm gave her a look.

Anna smiled at him innocently. "Personally I think the grey is very distinguished. But I guess whatever it takes 'n' all that." She glanced down at the PADD on her desk again. "In case I forget later, good luck with the mission, sir. We're all rooting for you."


	8. Donning the Uniform

Malcolm took one last look round the transporter room of his ship, sighing quietly to himself as he shuffled his grip on several bottles of hair dye. The transporter chief, Ensign Parsons looked a trifle nervous, mumbling to himself with his hand hovering over the controls. Malcolm eyed him worriedly a moment before allowing his gaze to rest on Stanford.

"I'll take good care of her, sir," Stanford gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm just keeping your seat warm for you."

Malcolm didn't return his smile. "There's no else I'd rather have captaining the ship in my stead," he told him seriously. "You'll make sure Barrett sends those letters to my family won't you?"

"She won't need to, you're coming back," said Stanford stubbornly.

Malcolm didn't reply merely held Stanford's gaze till the younger man nodded resignedly. Satisfied Malcolm relaxed slightly.

Walters bounded into the transporter room with grey uniforms draped over one arm and a bottle of hair dye clutched firmly in his right hand. "Sorry Captain, Crewmen Richmond had another bottle of hair dye for us." He grinned and leapt onto the transporter pad. "I don't think we'll need all that dye but we can't be too careful."

"Let the Enterprise know we're beaming over," Malcolm told Parsons before following Walters onto the transporter pad.

Stanford nodded his head to them. "Good luck."

"You too."

The Intrepid's transporter room faded out around them and they re-materialised in the Enterprise's transporter room to Trip's smiling face and another taller, dark haired man eyeing them both with profound suspicion.

Malcolm grinned. "Hey Trip," he threw the man stood beside Trip and amused look. "This must be your security officer, Lieutenant…Jones was it?"

"Yessir," said Jones relaxing minutely.

"Good to see you, Mal, Joe," said Trip grinning. "I assume you brought the hair dye? The Doc is eager to get her hands on us; it'd be a shame to keep her waiting."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow and stepped off the transporter pad.

"You know, I mentioned this to Doctor Benson and he looked at me like I'd grown a second head," said Walters following Malcolm's lead.

"We'd better not keep the good doctor waiting," said Malcolm sighing.

Trip nodded. "The sooner we get this over and done with the sooner we can get out to that planet." He left the transporter room with Malcolm falling into step beside him and Walters following on behind. "Chief says the ship's flyable."

"Yeah, Keller said the same thing," said Malcolm. "I believe the phrase she used to describe the ship was that it's held together by 'spit and prayers'."

"Sounds about right," said Trip smiling at a passing crewman. "But don't you worry, I'll keep it flying."

"I'm actually less worried about the journey than I am about what's going to happen when we land," Walters piped up from behind them. "Surviving the journey'll be easy, it's when we blend in with the clones we got issues."

The three men sobered a moment, stepping into the turbo-lift in silence. A couple of minutes later they reached sickbay where they were greeted by a petite blonde haired doctor with a beaming smile.

"Hello! You must be Captain Reed and Lieutenant Commander Walters, pleasure to meet you I'm Doctor Myiah Moore," she looked at them expectantly. "I see you've brought hair dye with you." She leant forward and removed a couple of the bottles from Malcolm's grip. "These should do the trick nicely."

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak then paused simply nodding.

She stared at the three of them. "Well don't just stand there; your hair won't dye itself!" She waved the bottles at them smiling brightly. "Ooh, I haven't done this for years, used to be a bit of a hobby but of course now sickbay seems to be constantly overflowing." She paused her bright smile fading.

"I don't need my hair dyeing," Walters announced after an uncomfortable pause. "Not that anyone on board had any red hair dye anyway…"

Doctor Moore nodded; brightening again she looked up at Trip and Malcolm. "So, who's first?"

"Him," they chimed in unison pointing to each other.

0 0 0 0

Malcolm stared at his reflection critically eyeing his hair, it hadn't been this colour for almost fifteen years, he suddenly chuckled imagining what his wife would say and ducked his head away from the mirror.

"This is so weird," said Trip from behind him, trying to peer over Malcolm's shoulder into the mirror. "Never thought I'd be a bottle blonde."

Malcolm snorted and moved out of Trip's way. "I guess it adds to that youthful appearance. Dr Moore did a great job."

Trip ignored him, peering intently at his hair. "This stuff really does cover all the grey." He grinned. "If my wife could see me now –"

"Are you two done admiring yourselves?" An impatient voice snapped at them from outside the room. "Only those clone uniforms are here and Commander Baker's requesting to see you for a… flight lesson."

Malcolm turned immediately and left the little room. His jaw dropped slightly. "Joe?"

The grey clad figure before him turned, his face expressionless, devoid of any emotion. Malcolm smiled slightly. "Nice."

"I told you it would work," said Walters triumphantly, a grin breaking out across his face as he tugged at the grey, scuffled uniform. "No expression and I look just like me."

"It really is uncanny that, looking like yourself," Malcolm said wryly eyeing one of the other uniforms slung across the nearest biobed.

Walters pulled a face.

"Time to get dressed, Captain," said Dr Moore appearing at Malcolm's elbow. "Baker's waiting for you."

"Sorry Doc, we'll be out of your hair in a minute," said Trip from behind them.

Dr Moore turned and smiled at him. "Not at all, Captain, it's been a nice break from routine." She strode forward grabbed the uniforms and pressed them into their hands. She gave them a scrutinising look. "I'll leave you to get dressed now, please be careful gentlemen. Lord only knows there will be enough bloodshed before this is over."

"We'll be careful, Doc," Trip promised.

Satisfied Dr Moore nodded and walked away into her office.

0 0 0 0

Trip pulled at the grey uniform uncomfortably as he walked along through the corridors of the Enterprise, the smears of dirt and spatters of blood on it only serving to remind him that they'd been pulled off a corpse. In a macabre way it was possibly one of the best fitting uniforms he'd ever worn. The thought made him shiver and he immediately picked up his pace.

He paused outside the transporter room and turned back to look at Walters and Malcolm. "This is it, once we're over there…"

"There's no coming back," Malcolm finished for him locking his gaze with Trip's.

Walters didn't say anything, merely looking between the two superior officers. Trip nodded to them both and stepped into the transporter room.

Mere minutes later all three were on board the PIT. Walters looked round frowning slightly, muttering something to himself under his breath, Malcolm glanced over at him but said nothing.

The sound of loud raised voices floated down the corridor towards them getting closer by the second.

"That sound like Anna," said Malcolm raising an eyebrow. "I didn't think she was over here again."

"- Of all the stupid things to do. Why in the name of all things unholy would you attempt to try and make it better when WE KNOW NOTHING ABOUT IT!"

"Definitely Anna," said Walters peering with interest down the corridor.

"She sounds friendly," Trip commented coming to stand beside Malcolm.

A second voice floated down the corridor. "Listen Anastasia – " Malcolm and Walters automatically winced. "– In case you've forgotten, I've been at this a good few years longer than you. I had another look at what we'd done and I saw a way to improve it."

"He called her Anastasia," said Walters in awe. "And he's still _alive_."

"Oh really, _Meredith,_ " came Anna's voice again. "So tell me, how many PIT's have you seen in your long illustrious career?"

"Meredith?" Walters hid a grin. "Is that his name?"

"No one calls the Chief Meredith," said Trip his mouth hanging open. "The only reason I get away with it is because I'm his Captain…"

Malcolm and Trip exchanged a quick glance before both immediately set off at a respectable pace down the corridor.

Anna and Baker were just round the corner, both glaring daggers at each other, Anna brandishing a PADD, Baker gripping tightly to the tool in his hand.

"Chief! Lieutenant Keller," Trip called to them as they approached

Baker and Anna immediately snapped round to face them.

"Hey Captain," said Baker nodding to him, visibly beginning to relax. "Nice hair."

"You look years younger," said Anna peering at them both intently, the PADD brandished in her hand slowly lowering.

Trip pulled a face. "Alright, seeing as there's been all this trouble with the engines I suggest that," Trip glanced quickly over at Malcolm, Malcolm nodded slightly. "Chief, you show me how you've got it all working –"

"And Anna you show me how to pilot this thing," Malcolm ended.

Trip slung a friendly arm round Baker's shoulders, expertly manoeuvring him away from Anna. "This is the way to the engine room, right?"


	9. Out of the Frying Pan

Malcolm stared down at the controls Anna had shown him, replaying her instructions over and over in his mind. Behind him he could hear Walters and Anna in quiet discussion. Straightening he turned to face them.

"I think that's us all sorted," said Malcolm. "We're just waiting on Trip and Baker."

"You've memorised all the controls?" Anna asked glancing at the panel behind Malcolm.

Malcolm nodded once and rubbed his eyes resisting the urge to yawn. Walters slumped down on to the floor and ran a hand through his hair.

"I can't believe they don't have chairs," he moaned quietly. "They don't treat the clones well do they."

"They're just clones," Malcolm replied dully. "Why worry about the health and feeding of each one when you can just make more?"

Walters winced. "Cannon fodder?"

"Exactly."

Anna shivered staring between them both. Malcolm looked up at her and smiled.

"Thanks Anna," he said sincerely. "You did good work on this –" He opened his mouth to say more but was interrupted by the approach of heavy footfalls. He tensed up, his hand automatically straying to his side for his phase pistol despite the fact he didn't have one with him. Trip and Baker appeared seconds later. Malcolm relaxed again.

"All sorted, sir?" Walters asked pulling himself to his feet again.

"All sorted," Trip confirmed. "The two of you did a great job on the engine." He clapped a hand on Baker's shoulder smiling. "Time for you two to go back, we've got work to do."

"I'll let the ships know to transport you over," said Walters fumbling with his sleeve, he paused, his hand clutching the grey material and grinned sheepishly. "I forgot this isn't my uniform."

There was an uncomfortable silence as Anna reached into her own sleeve pocket pulling out a communicator. "Don't worry about it, sir." She flicked it open and turned her back to the rest of them, talking quietly.

Baker turned to Trip and held out his hand. "Good luck, Cap'n."

Trip shook Baker's hand. "You too, keep 'em safe, Chief."

Baker nodded pulling out his own communicator. Trip walked over to Malcolm's side and peered down at the panel.

"You know how to fly this thing?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yeah," Malcolm gave Trip a sideways look. "Is it going to stay in one piece whilst I fly it?"

Trip gave Malcolm an extremely optimistic look. "Of course!"

Malcolm opened his mouth to reply then paused. Over his shoulder he could only just hear Baker awkwardly telling Anna, "try not to get yourself killed doing something stupid with the engine, Princess."

There was a second's pause before Anna replied, "same to you, Meredith."

Malcolm and Trip glanced at each other knowingly before turning round again. Walters hadn't moved his hand, still clutching his sleeve looking a little lost. Baker and Anna seemed not to have noticed, both stood staring at each other.

"I'm ready to be beamed up," Anna whispered into her communicator. She disappeared seconds later followed momentarily by Baker who nodded to the three men in encouragement before leaving.

"You know how the communications system works?" Malcolm asked Trip.

Trip shook his head. "From what the Chief told me it's been damaged, that is if that's if it is actually the comm. system." He glanced over at Walters. "Hey Joe, you ok?"

Walters snapped his hand away from his sleeve nodding guiltily. "Fine, sir."

"Right," said Trip looking unconvinced. He glanced back at the control panel. "Let's get this show on the road. Mal –" Trip gestured at the panel.

Malcolm turned and hit a series of buttons. The PIT shuddered to life around them noisily, Malcolm exhaled sharply. "Here we go."

After a long agonising moment the PIT slowly began to move, inching away from the Intrepid and the Enterprise. Malcolm hit another few buttons and the PIT began to increase in speed. It shuddered violently around them, protesting at the speed increase before finally and blissfully easing out till the shuddering became barely noticeable.

Walters shuffled forwards and peered over Malcolm's shoulder. "Looks like it's gonna be a while before we get there." There was a moment's pause and Walters suddenly brightened. "I spy, anyone?"

Malcolm groaned loudly.

0 0 0 0

"Captain!"

Walters' anxious voice jerked Malcolm out of his thoughts, one of the only voices to be heard in the past few hours.

"Captain! Captain, I'm picking up something," Walters called urgently. "A lot of somethings."

Malcolm leapt up from where he'd been sat and immediately went to Walters's side, peering over the younger man's shoulder at the readout in front of him. "That can't be right…"

"What is it?" Trip crossed the room to stand beside them. He frowned at the readout. "Maybe I can get this onscreen…" He tapped a few buttons experimentally, the large view screen ahead of them flickered reluctantly to life, crackling, it's picture distorted.

Malcolm stared at the picture intently. "Oh my God."

From the distorted image they could just about make out several sleek silver ships, dead ahead of them, triangular in shape with a bulge beneath. There seemed to be no end to the ships.

"PITs," Walters gasped. "There must be at least thirty! We have to warn Starfleet, we have to warn them. There aren't enough ships, we don't have enough ships to defend Earth against this many, we don't have enough we –"

"We can't tell them," said Malcolm his voice sounding hollow. "We don't have communications and we can't risk being discovered."

"Earth will be fine," Trip promised firmly, unable to take his eyes off the ships. "We have allies; they'll be able to hold them off. We'll be able to stop them from here. We'll be able to do something." Trip glanced down at the readout beside the panel again. "None of them are making any moves to attack us; they seem to be just letting us pass on by."

"For now," Malcolm muttered darkly, he tapped a few buttons on the panel. "Right, hopefully we'll reach the Planet without smacking into them." He paused his look turning calculating as he peered out at the view screen, he sighed a moment later.

"We could always hit the self destruct and take them all out now," said Walters staring at the view screen grimly.

Trip glanced sideways at him, studying the younger man's expression. Malcolm didn't even bother to look at Walters, shaking his head. "I've already thought of that, they'll just make more PITs. If we go down we could take out the source and hope that Starfleet can take on the PITs."

"They can take 'em on," said Trip confidently. "We just gotta get the job done here. How far are we away from the Planet?"

"We'll be touching down in about forty five minutes," said Walters unable to take his eyes off the view screen.

Trip glanced down at the readout. "They're moving – "

"To intercept?" Malcolm asked quickly.

Trip shook his head.

Malcolm briefly closed his eyes. "They're sending out the fleet."

"Starfleet won't have got everyone assembled in time yet, will they?" Walters ran a hand through his hair causing it to stick up in all directions.

Malcolm immediately flattened it down again. "Don't stick your hair up," he said frowning. "The clones have it flat."

"Right," Walters gave Malcolm a determined grin. "I'd hate to be the clonal outcast."

Malcolm and Trip ignored him, gazing intently at the readout. From the corner of his eye Malcolm saw Walters allow his grin to falter letting out a barely perceptible sigh, frowning worriedly as the PITs on the view screen slowly disappeared.

Somehow forty five minutes felt longer than the hours they'd already been aboard the PIT. Malcolm glanced round the dirty, grey room, he'd be happy never to see another shade of grey again once all this was over. If he survived, he reminded himself bleakly.

"I forgot to write to Lily," said Walters suddenly five minutes later, breaking the silence.

Malcolm glanced at Trip before straightening to look at Walters. Walters was staring out at the view screen not really paying them much attention.

"Lily Chambers? I'm sure you can tell her all about it when we get back," said Trip comfortingly.

"No, I meant a goodbye letter," said Walters sighing. "I wrote one each for my brothers, my parents, but I didn't write one for her." He straightened and smiled at Trip. "No you're right, I can tell her later." He paused and chuckled. "She'll just smack me upside the head for being stupid."

"If worst comes to worst," Malcolm began.

"Don't bother, Malcolm," Trip interrupted him quickly. "We are going home after this." He gave Malcolm a meaningful look, one that warned him to be quiet, not to voice that this result was unlikely. "We are," he repeated emphatically.

"Look, we're through the PITs," said Walters indicating the view screen. "I think I can see the Planet."

Malcolm found himself subconsciously rubbing the uniform covering his scar, he dropped his hand self consciously when he realised what he was doing only to see Trip doing the same thing.

"We'll be there soon," said Walters softly.


	10. And Into the Fire

The Planet loomed large on the view screen; the three men silently gazed at it momentarily lost in old memories. Walters patted his leg absently, almost like he was checking something was there.

The PIT suddenly jerked emitting a loud screeching noise as several mechanisms seemed to clunk into place.

"Trip…" said Malcolm slowly staring round the room.

Trip pushed past him, sliding in front of the nearest console. "It's the autopilot trying to take us in to land."

"And that's a bad thing?" Walters glanced around apprehensively. "This thing's obviously well past it's time for retirement. Setting down before it falls apart would be a great idea."

The machinery within the PIT screamed, a high pitched wail that had all three desperately trying to cover their ears, gasping at the aural onslaught. It juddered fitfully as it hit the atmosphere of the planet, bucking and rocking, throwing it's occupants around mercilessly.

Trip made a grab for the console as he slid past, wincing as the noise from the PIT continued to assault his hearing. "It's starting to come apart!" He fell as the ship rocked again, falling on top of Malcolm who'd been trying to crawl over to Trip's position.

Malcolm grunted as Trip knocked the wind out of him, rolling to one side to move out from beneath him only to be hauled to his feet by a rather battered looking Walters holding onto the console for dear life with his free hand.

Walters cast his gaze to the view screen; the PIT had entered the planet's atmosphere and was on its way down. Fast. "This is gonna hurt," he whispered.

With a loud groan the PIT suddenly came to a complete stop, throwing the three men to the floor again, before it gently landed.

Stunned, all three lay still breathing heavily until Malcolm rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. "C'mon," he hauled them both to their feet. "Time to blend in."

Walters eyed the door apprehensively. "Blend in, find sensitive equipment, make it go boom."

Malcolm nodded. "Exactly."

"If we get separated remember the signal," Trip added. He grinned reassuringly at them both. "Good luck."

They fell silent clearly hearing the heavy clomp of boots coming towards them. Malcolm took a deep breath carefully rearranging his expression, not daring to look at Trip or Walters. This was it.

Several clones of Walters came through the door, for a moment they stood completely still vacantly staring, Malcolm held his breath silently praying that he, Trip and Walters weren't discovered. The moment past, the clones moved on flooding the room, their hands passing gently over the tortured equipment.

Malcolm released his breath slowly and discreetly before taking the plunge and stepping forward. The clones ignored him as he slowly marched past them, hearing the clunk of Trip and Walters' boots behind him.

The first thing that struck him as he exited the PIT was the lack of sound. On the grey sandy surface of the Planet the clones' boots made no noise, and they may as well have been ghosts drifting from one task to another.

Malcolm kept marching slowly through the ranks of silent clones his eyes on the large grey square building in front of him; one side was shinier in appearance, the metal newer covering up some hurt to the building. Malcolm struggled to keep his expression neutral as his thoughts threatened to wander.

Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm saw a piece of machinery tumbled from a half constructed PIT crushing one of the clones beneath it, a loud agonised scream ripped through the air – all heads turned to face the fallen clone and it was regarded with eerie silence before the clones resumed their tasks with five splitting off from their assigned task to move the fallen piece of machinery leaving the clone twitching on the ground, blood streaming from it's mouth. There was a quiet gasp from behind him.

It took all Malcolm's self control not to react, his stomach tying itself in knots at the effort, praying that no one had noticed the quiet gasp not knowing whether it was Walters or Trip who had been unable to stop themselves from reacting.

He continued marching, a whistle sounded, piercing through the blanket of silence.

All the clones immediately halted in their task and stood stock still, waiting.

Malcolm stopped in his tracks, his gaze fixed on a point straight ahead of him.

In the building ahead he could see part of the wall suddenly slide away revealing clone soldiers marching slowly towards them guns at the ready. He forced himself to breathe evenly as he mentally reviewed his options. It was possible the clone soldiers weren't there to kill them; it was entirely possible they were boarding one of the completed PITs to prepare it for takeoff.

The clone soldiers steadily marched on, moving past the three men, but two at the very back of the group came to a standstill, one in front of Malcolm, one in front of Trip. Wordlessly the two remaining soldiers gripped onto them both, and Malcolm forced himself not to stare into the eyes of the clone soldier – his eyes, but not. Lifeless and vacant reminding Malcolm the clones were little better than hollow shells with programmed instructions.

The whistle sounded again, as one the clones started to move and the two clone soldiers pulled Trip and Malcolm in the direction of the building leaving Walters trailing along behind them trying to mask his uncertainty.

Part of the wall of the building swung aside again to admit them, with a feeling of sudden horror Malcolm belatedly remembered the sensors within the building that had sensed their arrival before.

He closed his eyes in anticipation as they were pulled into the main building. Any second now it would all be over.

But nothing happened, no alarms went off, no computerised voice welcomed them to the facility, only a faint cry from behind as the wall slide seamlessly back into place. Malcolm immediately opened his eyes to find an almost familiar person waiting for them, it was like a punch to the gut – it was Hathaway, the Captain of the Alva.

But not.

The lank, straggly, dirty blonde hair and grey uniform suggested a clone. But the eyes held a spark of life that irresistibly drew him to hold her gaze.

"You may go," she said timidly to the soldiers. "Thank you."

The soldiers turned and marched away down the long, metal corridor, their boots echoing oddly against the silence.

She clutched hold of their arms gazing wildly round the corridor, after a moment she seemed satisfied. "C'mon, hurry!" She hissed. "I know who you are!" She turned on her heel and slammed her hand against one of the panels on the wall; it slid away revealing another section of corridor.

Malcolm stared back round the corridor making direct eye contact with Trip. Trip closed his eyes briefly.

Walters was nowhere to be seen.

Malcolm followed on after the clone of Hathaway down the eerily silent corridor and then into a small room filled with monitors. The clone immediately shut the door behind them, before turning back to face them, her eyes wide and frightened.

"Do you know what I had to do to stop the sensors picking you up?" she asked trembling, "do you? I thought for sure I'd be discovered at any moment!" She sank into a nearby chair, one hand clutched over her heart. "Oh my life, I never thought it would come to this. Drop the act, I know who you are."

Malcolm glanced over at Trip, Trip shrugged helplessly.

"How?" Trip asked eventually, stretching to ease his tense muscles.

"I watch the sensors," she whispered, "I see the readouts from the ships. The second you boarded you were both lit up like the stars at night."

"What about our friend?" Malcolm asked cautiously, deciding for the moment to trust her.

She stared at her hands bitterly. "I don't know, he didn't register, just registered with the same blood type as some of the clones."

"Will the sensors pick him up?" Trip ran a hand through his hair.

"Not the ones I'm monitoring," she replied evasively.

Malcolm sighed subconsciously settling into a defensive stance. "Why are you helping us?"

She tugged at her hair in disgust. "You see this? This face? These eyes? They aren't mine." She dropped her hand to her lap glaring at it. "Ever since I've woken up I've seen this face reflected off the monitors… it's ugly, it's wrong. I feel like a thief." She sighed. "I hacked into the records, found the original…the woman whose body they gave me. They downloaded her – they didn't just take her body, they took her mind as well. I could tell you her father died when she was twelve leaving her mother to raise her and her brother alone. I could tell you that she had a secret stash of her favourite ice cream on the Alva, I could tell you –"

"Stop!" Trip exclaimed horrified. "Stop it!

"We don't have time for this," Malcolm hissed. "Walters is still out there, and those PITs are getting closer to the fleet and earth by the second!" He rounded on the woman glaring at her. "What do you want? Why are you helping us?"

"Because I don't want the future of my people founded on the death of millions," she snapped back all traces of earlier timidity gone. "My race died out a long time ago; there were just some who refused to accept it. I will help you destroy this facility; I need to put my people to rest before the universe's lasting memory of us is that of murderers as opposed to the peaceful, cultured society we once were." She rose to her feet and stared at them both defiantly. "Now are you going to accept my help or not?"

0 0 0 0

Cold. Every part of him felt like ice, the floor beneath him leaching away all the warmth from his body. His head throbbed painfully. Where was he?

With a groan he remembered. He had been only a step away from the entrance to the building when someone had whacked him from behind.

He inhaled sharply and attempted to open his eyes.

"Don't get up," said a male voice from somewhere to his right. "You'll only make yourself feel bad."

Walters immediately forced himself into a sitting position only to groan and clutch his head as the room swam around him.

"Told you."

Walters waited for the dizzy spell to pass and blinked rapidly as everything blurred into focus around him. "Who are you?"

"The others will take you to the machine in a moment," said the man ignoring his question.

Walters moved slowly to look at the man. The man before him seemed oddly familiar, like they'd met before, just in passing. After a moment's scrutiny of the man a name came to him. "Lieutenant Lewis," he said confused.

"After that you'll be recycled," said the man idly, still ignoring him. "It'll be for the best, you won't be of use to anyone after the machine."

"Lieutenant Lewis," Walters repeated frowning. "You served with Lily."

"No!" the man snapped forcefully suddenly darting forward and backhanding Walters across the face. He relaxed and settled back down again. "I shouldn't think it'll be too much longer. So you might as well enjoy your memories whilst they're still yours."

Wincing Walters gingerly touched his cheek, glaring at the man. "I'm not going in any machine."

The man laughed coldly. "You speak like you have a choice!"


	11. The Plan

The woman pushed past Malcolm to get to one of the monitors, staring at the readout thoughtfully.

"What is it?" Trip asked trying to see the screen.

"I think they've got your friend…" she said slowly, she tapped the screen. "See this here? That tells me how many clones are out on the surface at any given time… so if the number drops below two hundred I can inform supply to send out more. When you three arrived that number reached two hundred and thirty, currently there's only two hundred and twenty-six out there. One of the clones is dead, which means the other missing clone –"

"He's not a clone," Malcolm interrupted her, crossing his arms. "But I see your point. Can you find him from here?"

"Not a chance, unlike you two he isn't marked," she said immediately.

Malcolm's hand flew the scar on his side. Marked. That was one way to describe it, scarring the survivors so there'd be no chance of their DNA being taken a second time if they survived the first.

But Walters had been cloned, Malcolm had seen them, killed them. Walters wasn't one of the marked though, he hadn't been through the machine, felt the scalpels dragging through his flesh. No, they must have taken his DNA some other way, most likely from the pools of blood he'd left behind last time they'd been here.

Malcolm shuddered briefly, no one noticed.

Trip leant over the woman's shoulder and peered at the screen. "What will they do with him?"

She straightened and looked back to face him. "They'll take him to the machine," she said softly.

A look of confusion flashed across Trip's face. "The machine? But he's already been cloned."

"No," she replied awkwardly. "It's not the same machine." She turned back to the monitor screen. "This one… this one takes a person's mind form their body, transfers it into a sort of data file and stores it on the main computer. It takes a while to set up, but it's quicker if they're just taking the mind completely as opposed to… to just copying it."

"They're going to take his mind," Trip breathed horrified.

"Even if you get him back, once he's been in that machine…" She trailed off and inhaled sharply. "There won't be anything left, just an empty shell."

Malcolm closed his eyes. He could see Walters in his minds eye, in those stupid lime green pyjamas, those slogan t-shirts – each phrase more stupid and bizarre than the last, the man's personality was stamped over everything he did. Then it was gone replaced by an image of the clones with their expressionless faces, just empty shells with programmed instructions. "We have to get to him, where would they be holding him?"

"We don't have time," she replied sadly. "If we don't act now they'll find us and take us out before we can do anything. We don't have time –"

"What do you mean we don't have time?" Trip snapped, "they're going to kill him!"

"You either take down the facility or you save your friend," she spat back snapping round to face him. "Save him and you'll all die anyway. There's only so long I can hold off questions about the three of you, and there's only so much time before you friend's mind is taken and they discover your plan." Her face hardened. "Give up on him, he's already dead. We're still here, we can still do something." She gave them both a cold smile. "I can help you defeat them, once and for all."

0 0 0 0

Walters glared at not-Lewis sat across from him. "Of course I have a choice, the ability to choose is practically etched into my DNA – I'm not going into any machine."

Not-Lewis gave a dry laugh. "You amuse me."

"Score a point for me," said Walters irritably, his eyes darting round the room seeking a possible exit. Nothing. Not a door, not a window, just a single light overhead. He gaze settled on not-Lewis.

Could he fight him? On the one hand he was a scientist; he wasn't very competent at standard hand to hand possibly because he was one of the dirtiest fighters on board the Intrepid - with the exception of Captain Reed. Walters held no qualms about using every available body part to injure someone else with if they were attacking him – hell he'd even use his nails and pull hair if he thought it'd get him out the fight alive.

But Lewis, the original Lewis, was a security officer built like a Greek God – hitting him would feel like hitting a bag of cement. Then again it wasn't the original Lewis; not-Lewis couldn't have had the body very long…

Walters gave not-Lewis a speculative look and made a decision. "What does the machine do?"

Not-Lewis idly checked his hands. "It'll rip your mind from your body."

Walters blinked visibly tensing. His mind? A response automatically burbled from his mouth "I kind of like it where it is."

Not-Lewis glanced at him. "You could always save us the trouble and just tell us what you're doing here."

0 0 0 0

"There must be some way to help Walters," Malcolm argued. "Isn't there some way to slow the machine? Give Walters a couple more hours at least?"

"And what would that do? Just prolong his agony," she said shaking her head. "If I do somehow manage to slow the set-up of the machine, and this is a big 'if' they may start by torturing him, get the information that way."

Malcolm pictured Walters in his head, an empty shell left by the machine, all trace of personality gone. "If we give him a couple more hours then we can go save him."

"You can't do both," she told them angrily. "You do one or the other."

"Just do it!" Trip snapped. "At least give him the chance."

"We're wasting time!" She pushed her lank hair from her face agitatedly fear seeping into her expression. "The more time we waste the more likely they are to discover our plan."

"Work on the machine, tell us the plan," Malcolm stated firmly. "We'll make a start." He paused. "Provided we don't think this is all a trap."

She pulled a face. "Please. You honestly think they would go to all this trouble." She glared at them both. "This wasn't an easy decision for me to make, I didn't just wake up in this body and decide to betray my people! A million people will die if my plan works, and I'm not talking about clones. I'm talking about The People." She slumped down onto a nearby chair and sighed. "To stop this, to stop the cloning, the butchering, the loss of your people, we have to destroy the mainframe. The mainframe houses the minds of all the People."

"A million people," Trip said softly.

Malcolm considered her words a moment, his mind ticking over.

He struggled against the arms that held him down, screaming in agony, screaming nonsense, screaming to be released, he had to escape the pain, escape the hands holding him down, escape the clutches of the glinting machine hovering above him, slicing into his stomach with frightening precision.

Blood everywhere, covering every surface, people carelessly strewn about. Some moving, whimpering, others still – too still. Reynolds strapped to the machine his arms, legs, and body tightly restrained, a machine surrounding his head with wires issuing out of it to the surrounding machines that were rapidly beeping and listing off data.

Ships, filling every aspect of the distorted screen, moving silently, sleek silver assassins off to engage Starfleet… in all likelihood the PITs would win and continue their silent march to Earth.

The ghostly scent of blood lingered in his mind a moment longer. "What do you need us to do?"

Trip bowed his head in resignation and stood alongside Malcolm. The woman smiled hesitantly and turned back to her monitor. "Let me just see what I can do for your friend." She worked silently a moment bringing up screens filled with symbols they didn't understand.

"Well," Trip prompted. "Can you do anything?"

The look on her face told them everything. She rose to her feet. "I'm sorry."

0 0 0 0

The wall suddenly slid aside. Not-Lewis stood up. "Come, it's time to leave."

Walters resolutely stood his ground. "No."

Not-Lewis advanced on him, backing him into a corner. He made a swing for Walters but Walters blocked it, grabbing hold of Not-Lewis's arm, straightening it with a jerk and using his other hand to smash Not-Lewis's elbow joint.

Not-Lewis fell to the ground with a sharp cry, Walters leapt over him and sprinted from the room.


	12. Run

Malcolm started pacing the room anxiously. No way, it was too soon, she said he had some time before… "You said we still had some time!" He snapped. "Can't you shut the machine down?"

"There's nothing I can do," she snapped back rising to her feet her head tilted back in defiance. "What's done is done. They were faster than I thought. Your friend –" She hesitated a moment. "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do," she said finally her tone quieter, softer. "If it's any consolation it feels just like falling asleep."

"They did it to you," Trip realised.

She laughed mirthlessly. "How else do you think I ended up like this? They did it to everyone, the old, the young, the entire population. If you didn't go willingly they dragged you there." She sighed. "They called it our salvation, the only way to save our race from extinction."

Malcolm kept pacing, his mind ticking over the possibilities, now almost ignoring her. Trip watched him a moment before resting his gaze on the woman again.

"Extinction? I don't understand."

"My people," she slumped back down onto the chair again. "My people were brilliant in every sense of the word, cultured, so technologically advanced compared to the other species in our system… but it all went wrong. It happened so gradually, so slowly that no one even realised…"

"Realised what?" Trip prompted grabbing hold of Malcolm's sleeve. Malcolm glared at him but stopped pacing.

"That we were losing our reproductive ability," she answered softly. "When it was discovered everything descended into chaos, they…the governors, they put top scientists on the issue. Eventually a scientist named Ison found an answer, download everyone's minds into the mainframe – keep everyone safe, then search for other species, bring them back to tests to see if they were compatible with us… take their DNA." Her eyes took on a haunted look. "People were outraged, there were riots in the streets. But others were so desperate to survive, to keep our race going they were eager to do anything." She lowered her gaze.

"Even slaughter a million people," Malcolm stated bitterly.

"You have to understand they were scared!" she said turning back to her monitor. "Extinction is a powerful motivator."

"So why are you helping us?" Malcolm challenged.

Trip glared at him then crossed his arms. "He has a point. Your people went to so much trouble to save you all and now you want them all dead?"

"They're already dead," she said hollowly. "All that we knew, all that we cherished is gone…my people died the second they went into the mainframe. When you come out…" she faltered and stared down at herself. "You're just a ghost, hijacking someone else's body." She rubbed her arms roughly. "I can feel Hathaway, under my skin, this isn't even the original body but I can still feel her, still sense her presence." She shuddered. "I'm not Iyria anymore, and I don't think I ever will be again."

"What do we need to do," Trip asked quietly after a moment's pause.

"Get to the main generator," Iyria said straightening and glancing back at her monitor. "Erase it, then get to doing as much damage as possible."

Malcolm smiled grimly. "Sounds like a plan."

0 0 0 0

Walters burst through the doorway to his cell hearing Not-Lewis scream in pain and frustration behind him, made a split-second decision and dived down the left hand corridor.

His head thumped to the rhythm of his heart as his feet pounded the metallic floor, every footstep echoing all around him making it sound like a thousand clones were chasing him down the hallway.

He skidded through a doorway on his right and carried on running ignoring the burning ache in his lungs.

Two clones suddenly stepped out ahead of him; Walters tried to dodge but tripped and slammed onto the floor. The two clones turned to stare at him. Walters kicked out viciously, knocking the clones back, and threw himself to his feet, sprinting through the next open doorway.

He could feel himself tiring, knew his pace was slowing, knew he wasn't getting enough oxygen, but he couldn't stop. He could hear the two clones he'd kicked back running after him, their boots making an odd clunking noise against the floor.

He couldn't run forever, but he was damn well going to try anyway.

0 0 0 0

"Follow me, look blank," Iyria ordered quietly, her hand poised against the door release. "Do not make eye contact with anyone."

Malcolm and Trip nodded.

Iyria hit the door release and stepped out onto the corridor. Malcolm and Trip fell into step behind her trying to keep their faces as blank as possible.

The soft sound of their boots clunking against the metal floor echoed painfully through the corridor, the silence making every sound magnified.

Malcolm tried to keep his thoughts from showing on his face, something he could usually do with ease, but stress and lack of sleep had taken their toll on him. He hated that they had to trust in Iyria, who yes, had a convincing enough story but he couldn't shake the feeling that she was hiding something. With a jolt he remembered Isobel the one who had been taking care of the clones of Trip and himself whilst in a simulator of sorts. She had been in a word, mad, seemingly against her government at the time but when Malcolm had time to think about it back on the ship not really against her government at all.

Iyria stopped, lightly tapped a door release half hidden on the wall and led them into another corridor. This one seemed to stretch out forever with no visible doors and dim light coming from some unknown source where the walls met with the ceiling.

Malcolm saw the nervous, anxious look that flashed across Iyria's face before she turned away from them again. A distinct feeling of unease settled into his gut. Something was making him uneasy, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

The eerily silent corridor seemed to close in on all sides as they moved slowly down it. The air was too close, too still almost as if no one had passed down it in years.

Iyria's pace quickened and judging from the distinctly uncomfortable look on her face Malcolm guessed she wasn't a fan of the corridor either. She hit another hidden door release and they move into another corridor.

Malcolm's thoughts began to wander as he followed Iyria robotically through the seemingly endless corridors with Trip at his side. Right now Walters would be in that machine, wires going into his brain taking everything, all his knowledge, details of the plan, his memories, even his sense of humour, all being sucked out and converted into data files. It felt like going to sleep, that's what Iyria had said.

Somehow it didn't make him feel any better.

The uneasy feeling gnawed at his gut again, something was wrong, terribly wrong.

No clones.

There were no clones around at all.

A risky glance at Trip told him the other man had noticed too.

0 0 0 0

Gasping for air Walters flung himself through another doorway only to trip again, hitting the ground hard. Stunned he could hardly move for a moment, his aching, burning limbs screaming at him for a respite.

He couldn't hear anything over his own ragged breaths. Fear gripped him and he forced his uncooperative limbs to move, dragging himself to his feet and hoping his shaky legs wouldn't give way.

He half expected Not-Lewis and the clones to burst through the door any second and drag him away to the machine. He shuddered.

He pushed away from the wall and staggered down the corridor. Behind him he heard the faint clunk of boots hitting a metal floor.

Inhaling sharply Walters forced himself to move faster and his pace picked up to a pitiful jog. He came to the end of the corridor moments later and gasping for air felt around the end wall trying to find something, anything that would release the door.

His fingers met a rough panel; he pressed it eagerly.

Nothing happened.

He could hear the sound of the clones' boots louder now. He pressed the panel again. The door didn't respond.

"C'mon, c'mon," Walters begged risking a glance behind him. He slammed his hand into the panel and finally the door swung open to reveal a very surprised, and very familiar woman.

Walters frowned. "Captain Hathaway?" Then his eyes fell on the two clones behind her. "NO!"

The two clones suddenly seized hold of him, Walters tensed trying to muster the strength to struggle before realising the two clones holding him were… were laughing in relief.

"Jesus Christ, Joe, we thought you were dead."

"Captain Reed? Captain Tucker?" Walters whispered in disbelief.

"We can't stay here!" the woman squeaked urgently her gaze darting down the corridor. "I can hear clones coming – he can't be here!"

"How far away is the generator?" Malcolm asked urgently.

Walters found himself feeling far too relieved as Trip moved to support him. He nodded his thanks and Trip gave him a worried smile in acknowledgement.

"Right on the next corridor, then right again at the fifth exit, after that left into the security room," the woman told him quickly, fearfully glancing down the corridor. "It's just a matter of typing in my passcode to get in, after that we'll have maybe five minutes to wipe the mainframe before they get us."

Malcolm laid a hand on Walters' shoulder. "Joe, how many of them are following you?"

"Definitely two, maybe more," said Walters quickly. "I don't know the exact number, sir."

"It's alright," Trip assured him.

"We have to –" The woman froze mid sentence.

Three clones stepped into the corridor ahead of them.


	13. The Waiting Game

"Run," Iyria breathed. "RUN!"

Malcolm and Trip seized hold of Walters pulling him along with them as they darted back down the corridor the clones in hot pursuit. It was like the floodgates had opened with more clones appearing behind them every time Malcolm risked a glance back.

Iyria threw herself through doorways leading them through a maze of corridors; Malcolm could only just see her as she raced on ahead opening up the doors.

"Sir! I can't," Walters gasped futilely, stumbling and forcing Malcolm and Trip to accept more of his weight.

"Yes you can," Malcolm snapped back pulling him along daring to cast a quick look back. "At least twenty clones running behind us says you run or we all die."

"No pressure," Walters muttered breathlessly.

Malcolm grunted in response his eyes fixed on Iyria who had skidded to a halt up ahead outside a dull, thickset silver door unlike any other in the facility. He saw her frantically tapping the keypad beside the door and mentally prayed for the door to open sometime in the next twenty seconds.

Walters feet came out from beneath him and Malcolm almost stumbled against the sudden onslaught of extra weight, but Trip had been more prepared and together they barely missed a step as they ran dragging Walters between them.

"Hurry up!" Trip called out to Iyria.

She shot him a truly poisonous look and continued fiddling with the keypad. There was a loud hiss and just in the nick of time the door smoothly swung aside.

Sharing at quick glance Malcolm and Trip literally threw Walters through the door before grabbing the handle on the other side and using their momentum to pull it shut.

But they weren't fast enough.

Arms reached through the gap, grasping at the air, Malcolm didn't stop pulling at the door.

Together they threw all their weight back, the door moved back into place another notch and the sudden cries of pain from the other side had some of the arms automatically withdrawing leaving only two stupid enough not to move.

Walters staggered forward, limply grabbing hold of the handle to assist them. They pulled once more, a loud crack whipped through the air followed by a sickening squelch.

The door finally closed and two severed arms dropped to the ground in front like mangled trophies.

Behind him Malcolm heard Iyria gasp in disgust. Tearing his eyes away from the severed limbs he turned to face the others. "Where now?"

"That was the first lock, there's two more," said Iyria unable to look away from the lumps of flesh near the door.

"I just… need a breather," Walters gasped leaning against the wall and sliding to the ground.

"We can't stop!" said Iyria looking scandalised. "They will be here soon! We have to keep moving if we want to stop them!"

Walters glared at her and raised an accusing finger. "Are you trying to kill me?" Groaning and panting he pulled himself to his feet.

Malcolm clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Good man."

Iyria set off down the corridor towards the next door and began fiddling with the console beside it.

"Anything we can do to help?" Trip called to her.

The vicious, panicked glare she shot in his direction was enough of an answer. Walters leant against the wall and sighed. "So I can rest now?"

"No!" Iyria snapped as the next door swung open. "You cannot rest, unless you want to be left here!"

"Testy isn't she?" Walters muttered to Malcolm.

Malcolm nodded. "She's understandably stressed."

Walters pushed off from the wall. "I know the feeling." Trip moved to help him get past the second door where they could already see Iyria's hands darting over the console.

Malcolm slowly dragged the door shut behind them plunging the corridor into darkness. "Damn."

There was a muffled stream of what the men assumed to be curses coming from Iyria before the corridor was suddenly lit by something like strobe lights set into the ceiling.

Iyria sighed and turned to them. "This may take a while, you can rest. The password coding is quite complex."

Malcolm nodded and cast a worried glance at Walters, who released a huge sigh of relief and promptly folded into a heap on the floor. Malcolm moved to crouch beside him.

"How you holding up, Joe?" he asked gently, watching Trip shift to sit besides Walters.

"I'm surviving," Walters replied tiredly. "Done a lot of running y'know?" He tipped his head back to lean against the wall and sighed, wincing as his aching muscles stretched.

"What happened?" Trip stared at Walters face intently.

"Oh, threats of impending death, some fighting, a lot of running," said Walters evasively, "nothing major, sir." He laughed briefly. "I shattered Not-Lewis's elbow."

"Not-Lewis?" Trip exchanged a concerned glance with Malcolm.

"The clone that was going to take me to the…" Walters trailed off and made a vague gesture towards his head.

Sensing a need to change the subject Malcolm glanced back at the door they'd just come through. "I wonder where all those clones came from. There were no clones and then more than twenty come spilling out."

"Something's not right," Trip agreed in a low voice. "It's almost like…"

"Like they're lulling us into a false sense of security," Malcolm suggested scowling.

"Or maybe they've just loaded up the excess clones onto the PIT's," Walters yawned. "After all, someone has to be flying them." He gave them both an optimistic smile then another thought occurred to him. "Where are we going anyway?"

0 0 0 0

Malcolm paced anxiously behind Iyria, his eyes flickering from the door they'd come through, to Trip and Walters, and to the console Iyria was working on. They could all by now here muffled thuds coming from the other side as if clones were throwing themselves repeatedly at the door to try and break it.

"Are you almost done?" he asked impatiently. "it won't be long before we're through that door and if they get through –"

"I know!" Iyria snapped. "Probably better than you do," she glared at him, "I'm almost done, get… him ready." She gestured briefly to Walters before turning back to her console.

Malcolm tried not to wince as a particular loud yet dull thud echoed round the room and moved over to Walters and Trip. "C'mon, Iyria says she's almost got it." He held out his hand to Walters and hauled the younger man to his feet.

Walters groaned and immediately started stretching out his muscles. Malcolm gently nudged him in the direction of Iyria before turning back to help Trip to his feet.

"How's he doing?" Malcolm whispered to Trip. "He let on anymore about what happened?"

"He's got some bad bruising," Trip murmured back, "he didn't say anything else but I get the feeling he's repressin' it."

"I've got it!" Iyria exclaimed.

Malcolm and Trip moved to haul the surprisingly heavy door open to reveal an oddly simplistic looking black machine that stretched from the ceiling to the floor with tiny micro lights down the sides lighting up in sequence with tubes snaking from the machine to the walls.

Malcolm risked a sideways glance at Iyria who was gazing at the machine in awe. She stepped forward and laid her hand reverently on the machine.

"Forgive me," she whispered barely audible. "It's for the best."

Malcolm stared again at the machine, it seemed almost impossible to believe that the consciousness of a million people resided within the simple black casing. In a way he was glad. It made it easier this way.

00 _Meanwhile_ 00

Acting Captain Mark Stanford squirmed uncomfortably in his seat feeling entirely out of place and itching to be back at his station.

"Sir, we're receiving orders to join the rest of the fleet," Barrett piped up suddenly, face scrunched up in concentration.

Anticipation rose in his gut. "You hear that Daniel?"

The helmsman Ensign Stevens didn't look back but nodded in the affirmative. "Already on it, Commander." A quick glance passed between Stevens and Barrett before both returned their attention to their consoles.

Stanford drummed the arm of the chair impatiently, he hated this moment, the in-between time before anything happened. He glanced at his replacement on the tactical console; Crewman Gough saw him looking and gave him a hesitant smile. He nodded briefly to her and risked a quick look at Walters' replacement at the science station.

"Coming up on the rendezvous point," said Stevens, his voice breaking the silence. "Woah…."

At least twenty ships of all shapes and sizes lined the viewscreen in defensive formation. Stanford's heart sank. Somehow he'd hoped for more.

"They're expecting a war," said Barnes slowly from the science station.

"They don't need to expect one – we've got one," Stanford snapped his fingers fiddling nervously with the cuff of his uniform.

"Commander!" Gough exclaimed tapping furiously at her console. "Something has just appeared on long range sensors, I can't know for sure but it's moving at one heck of a speed."

"What? How many?"

Gough stared at her console anxiously. "I'm not entirely sure, sir, the readings aren't clear, my best estimate would be about twenty/thirty ships." She looked up nibbling her lower lip. "I think it's the PITs, sir."

Stevens clenched the sides of his console. "We don't have enough ships; we don't have nearly enough ships! It took two of ours to take down one of theirs last time!"

Stanford threw himself to his feet fighting to keep his temper and rising sense of panic under control. "Stop it! I won't have talk like that, we will fight and we will win. Because we have to, if Captain Reed were here I know he'd say the same thing, these… people will not stop, if we do not defeat them today then they will move on to Earth and countless numbers of people will die. Yes, they have more ships – but it's not over yet. Do you understand me?"

There were a chorus of murmured "yessir". Stanford relaxed minutely.

"We can beat them," he said with more confidence than he felt. "We _will_ beat them. This is a damn good crew and we will do our Captain proud!"

He inwardly sighed in relief as the crew returned to their work with renewed vigour, he cast a regretful glance at his old station before sinking reluctantly back down into the Captain's chair.

Now all they had to do, was wait.


	14. End of the Line

A soft boom echoed in the background as all three men turned to look at Iyria expectantly. Or at least Walters did, Trip saw the look of resignation on Malcolm's face and knew it was mirrored on his own.

A million people.

It was so much easier when he could only see this simple machine.

"What now?" Walters asked quietly.

Iyria made shushing noises at him before turning to the wall. She ran delicate hands across the smooth surface mumbling to herself as she did so.

Trip watched her curiously. The silence was unnerving, serving only to highlight the distant ring of the clones trying to break the door.

Another thought struck him. Would destroying this…innocuous machine do anything? Would it stop the People? Or would it cause the remaining few to lash out and destroy Earth out of spite? Trip rubbed his face with a tired hand. Too many variables, too many lives at stake and not enough time – there was never enough time.

He cast another look at Malcolm. His friend had an odd expression, defeat mixed with determination.

"They'll be through soon," he heard Malcolm say softly, his voice so low Trip barely heard it.

Trip nodded briefly. "Hopefully by then she'll…" _have worked out how to kill a million people_ , yet he couldn't bring himself to complete his sentence aloud. But Malcolm understood and acknowledged it with the barest flicker of his head.

Iyria let out a little sigh and a small section of the wall slid away to reveal a small control panel. She turned to them. "There are two more panels." She pointed at two different areas of the wall. "Somewhere round there, roughly –" She gestured with her hands "- this far from the corresponding pipe."

Walters moved instantly to follow her instructions, seemingly relieved to have something to occupy his mind with – if only for a moment. Trip nodded to Malcolm and moved to the site of the second panel.

Working up from the pipe beside him Trip ran his hands lightly across the wall. Slow, frustrating seconds past with no success, till almost as if by accident his fingers brushed against something surprisingly rough on a seemingly smooth wall.

A small panel in the wall slid away beneath his hand to reveal another little control pad. There were tiny symbols on each button but Trip hadn't a clue what any of them meant, they could be numbers, letters, anything.

"There's three separate codes," Iyria told them, "the buttons on these panels are numbered from one to nine vertically."

"Great, what are the codes?" Walters asked his eyes running up and down the buttons.

Iyria hesitated a moment and Trip frowned.

"You do know them don't you?"

"Give me chance!" Iyria snapped, she turned back to her control panel and they could almost hear whispered sequences of numbers as she lightly traced the buttons.

The boom outside gently increased in volume, Malcolm glanced back at Trip. Trip closed his eyes, he knew what that glance meant.

It meant they were quickly running out of time.

"I think the clones are getting closer," said Walters cocking his head to one side, a thoughtful expression on his face. "The sound of impending doom got louder."

Trip rolled his eyes and glanced across at Iyria. She'd stopped muttering numbers to herself and was now staring at Trip's control panel thoughtfully. A look of triumph came over her face.

"I remember the sequence!" she announced, off their expectant looks she continued, "the three panels are tied, there is in fact one sequence of numbers that is separated between the three panels, so I would enter the first number, then you –" She pointed at Walters. "- then you." She gestured to Trip. "Remember the numbers go from one to nine vertically, not horizontally."

Trip nodded.

"Right," Iyria inhaled sharply. "Remember, err…Joe? You type in every second number. And you type in every third number."

"Every third number got it," Trip repeated.

Walters nodded in confirmation.

Iyria turned back to her control panel. "If we input this code correctly a main console should appear that will let me wipe the system."

"And if you don't input the code correctly?" Malcolm asked warily.

Iyria made a vague gesture with her hand. "A gas will release and we'll all die."

"No pressure then," Walters muttered darkly.

"93, 34448, 367,"Iyria began slowly, carefully pronouncing each number. "8436. 93, 53276 367 8436. 93, 39478, 367, 8436."

Trip carefully typed in '843' and all four turned round to stare at the machine expectantly. For a moment nothing happened but then there was a grating noise followed by a small section of the floor slipping away near Walters' feet. Walters almost stumbled but Trip grabbed hold of him yanking him back. A sleek silver podium rose up from the new gap in the floor and settled into place a minute later. The control panel on top flickered to life.

"Not big on colour are they?" Walters commented as he gazed intrigued at the new control panel.

Iyria strode forward and delicately ran her hands across the control panel.

"Any more security measures we should worry about?" Malcolm asked coming over to look.

Iyria shook her head. "No. It shouldn't be too difficult to wipe the system now."

00 _Meanwhile_ 00

Stanford paced impatiently back and forth across the bridge resisting the urge to shove Crewman Gough away from the tactical console. He'd always known he wanted command of his own one day, but right now all he wanted was to be behind the tactical console ready to protect his people.

Barrett flashed him a quick look of irritation before returning to her work, listening intently on all the comm. frequencies.

Stanford gave her a guilty look and stopped pacing. He knew he was being an irritant but he just felt a drive to do something, anything.

But there was nothing he could do.

He sat down in the Captain's chair his mind running over possible manoeuvres and attack patterns, at the same time keeping an ear out for an update on the position of the so far unknown craft.

Finally, five minutes later Gough's voice rang across the bridge. "It's the PITs, sir."

Stanford's head whipped round to face her. "How many?"

"Thirty," Gough reported her mouth tightening into a unhappy line. "They're moving so fast! They'll be within firing range in five minutes."

Thirty? Stanford's mouth ran dry. They were badly outnumbered against an enemy that required at least two of their ships working in tandem against one. He glanced at each of the bridge crew in turn and felt a rush of pride at the determined looks on their faces. "Raise shields!"

Stevens swivelled round in his seat to look at Stanford. "Captain Reed'll find a way to stop them, won't he, sir?"

"Of course he will," Stanford replied injecting more confidence and conviction into his voice than he actually felt. "He'll take down their base while we take down their ships."

"You make it sound so simple," Gough muttered to herself, her voice barely audible.

"If we couldn't do this none of us would be here," said Stanford loudly, making sure his voice was heard across the bridge. "I won't lie and say it'll be easy, but either we fight or Earth suffers just like the crew of the Alva, the Magellan and the Colombia. For their sake we will do this." He looked at each of the bridge crew in turn. "Captain Reed has faith in us, and I do to."

"Three minutes till the PITs are in firing range," said Gough quietly after a moments pause.

"Be ready with the torpedoes and phasers," Stanford told her, gripping the armrests of the chair tightly.

This was it.

"There's a message coming through from Admiral Archer to the entire fleet, sir," Barrett reported, her hand pressed against her earpiece. She smiled. "He's wishing us luck."

Stanford gave her a grim smile in return. "Keep an ear out for distress calls. Some of those smaller ships don't have the firepower we do. It makes them easy targets." He paused then added. "Orders too."

Barrett nodded turning back to her console.

Stanford released a slow breath and rose to his feet. He glanced across at the tactical console. Gough raised her head to look at him.

"Two minutes."

"Fire on the nearest ship as soon as it comes into range – target their weapons system primarily then the engines," Stanford ordered. "Stevens, keep us out the firing line of the other ships." He tapped the comm. on the armrest of the Captain's chair. "Bridge to Engineering."

_"Keller here."_

"Anna, the PITs are less than two minutes out," said Stanford his gaze fixed on the view screen.

_"Don't you worry, Commander, I'll keep her flying as long as you lot try to avoid hitting every single shot sent our way."_

Stanford smirked. "We'll try. Stanford out." He straightened.

The seconds ticked by at an agonisingly slow pace. It seemed like an eternity had passed before Gough announced the PITs were a minute away. His muscles were singing, adrenaline flooding his system as the image of thirty sleek, silver, deadly PITs crowded the view screen.

He could see the tension in his officers, could see it in the way they held themselves stiffly in their seats, could see the grim determination in others and gut-wrenching fear in the rest.

"They're in range!"

Heart pounding in his ears Stanford strode forward. "FIRE!"

00 _Back on the Planet_ 00

Malcolm stood helplessly near the door as the floor suddenly trembled beneath them. "They're through the next door! Hurry up!"

"I'm going as fast as I can!" Iyria snapped. Malcolm could hear the fear in her voice as her fingers danced across the control panel.

"There's got to be someone inputting the codes," said Trip staring anxiously at the door. "They got through that last door pretty quick compared with the first.

"So anytime today would be fabulous," said Walters nervously, leaning over Iyria's shoulder.

The door to the room started to shake and the noise of something being thrown against it on the other side increased. Malcolm resisted the urge to pace, knowing it would only waste precious energy. Trip caught and held his gaze. They both knew that after this, it was over, there was no other exit. Once the job was done, the clones would kill them.

Malcolm briefly closed his eyes imagining his family. His heart clenched as his thoughts turned to his children, he'd never see them grow up now, he'd never see the people they would become. Trip crossed the room and held out his hand. Malcolm shook it firmly.

"I've done it," Iyria whispered her voice breaking.

A loud squealing noise ripped through the air, followed by the machine gently powering down. The comforting absence of the hum of the machine was the only thing that told them they'd successfully killed a million people.

The lights went out plunging the room into darkness.


	15. Dark

Resisting the urge to panic at the sudden darkness Walters carefully moved so he was leaning against the wall behind him. "Why have the lights gone out?"

Somewhere to his left Iyria's voice broke through the darkness. "By taking out this system we've successfully knocked out the others as well. It'll take a moment for some of the core systems to reroute themselves."

Walters gingerly stretched out his arms slowly moving them round him to check if anyone was nearby. His fingers met coarse fabric. He opened his mouth to ask who it belonged to but was stopped by a strong grip gently removing his fingers. Walters smiled. "Sorry sir."

"Its fine, Joe," Malcolm replied carefully.

"If we've knocked out part of the system does this mean we've stopped the clones as well?" Trip asked.

Walters blinked and turned his head to where he believed Iyria to be stood.

"The ones in the building, yes," Iyria replied eventually. "Part of their minds are - were stored in the mainframe, it was how we could give them commands. It that ever failed another part of the programming would kick in to destroy the clones."

His heart sank and for a second he was clouded with visions of piles of dead bodies, bodies with his face. He shuddered and shoved the image away. "So the ones in PITs are still going strong." Silence greeted his statement. Another thought slammed into the forefront of his mind. "What about the People in the bodies? Like you - what about them? How many of them are there?" Memories of smashing Not-Lewis's elbow surfaced and Walters pulled a face safe in the knowledge no one else could see it. "I know one that's going to be thrilled to see me again."

"Do I sound dead to you?" Iyria snapped impatiently. Walters heard her shuffle carefully over to the door. "I'm...I'm not entirely sure how many of the People were restored to bodies. I was more focused on the technical take down of the facility and, err, no one came to visit."

There was an awkward silence. Walters's stomach suddenly grumbled loudly and he winced at how loud it sounded. "Sorry." He blinked and sighed. "What happens now?"

"We wait," Trip began slowly. "Wait for the power to return, get out of here and -"

"Do as much damage as possible," Malcolm ended for him.

0 0 _Meanwhile_ 0 0

"Direct hit!" Gough reported triumphantly, her face fell. "Minimal damage."

Stanford clutched at the back of the Captain's chair. "Keep firing."

"Sir!" Barrett called anxiously, one hand glued to her earpiece. "The Endeavour is sending out a distress call; their shield and weapons are gone."

"What's their position?" Stanford asked his eyes on the view screen.

"We got another PIT on our tail! It's coming up fast - they're preparing to fire!"

Stanford's mind was working overtime. One PIT bearing down on them, another coming up from behind. "Stevens! Pull up! See if we can't get these bastards to hit each other!"

Stevens nodded tersely and the ship jerked as he hit the controls, the inertial dampeners unable to compensate quickly enough.

"We have a kill!" Gough crowed. "They very kindly killed each other!"

A cheer rang round the bridge. "Don't start celebrating just yet - get to the next PIT." Stanford exhaled sharply and glanced at Barrett. "The Endeavour?"

Barrett paused a moment, listening carefully to her earpiece. She pressed a few buttons on her console then shook her head. "They're gone, sir." She paused again. "We're receiving orders to pull back into defensive position with the rest of the fleet."

Stanford nodded. "You hear that Ste -"

The ship suddenly rocked violently almost knocking Stanford off his feet.

"PIT coming in off the starboard side, shields are holding."

"Return fire, target their weapons system," Stanford ordered.

"Four more PITs are on intercept - they're trying to cut us off from the rest of the fleet."

Stanford forced himself to sit in the Captain's chair. "Stevens, evasive manoeuvres - don't let them block us in!"

The PITs loomed large in the view screen blocking the battle beyond. With every second they appeared to gain more ground.

"It's not working," Stevens ground out. "It's like they're anticipating our moves! I can't get past."

"Keep trying," said Stanford clutching the armrest, a cold dread curling round his heart. If the PIT's succeeded in boxing them in they were done for. "Try looping back over the top of them! It worked before; maybe we can get them to take each other out again!"

Stevens nodded grimly. "Aye sir."

Stanford almost smiled as the PITs began to disappear from the view screen giving way to the stars.

"Almost there," said Stevens wrestling with the controls. "Almost there..."

"Brace for impact!" Gough yelled

The ship rocked again, Barnes' console sparked and he cried out startled.

"Our shields are down to 20 percent," Gough reported cursing under her breath. "They got the shot off before we made it out."

"The PITs are coming round again," a warning voice echoed across the ship.

0 0 0 0

The door opened just as the lights came on, flooding the room with light. Malcolm resisted the urge to throw up his arm to cover his eyes at the sudden onslaught a sudden feeling of dread curling round his gut.

No one in the room could've opened the door, not without power - someone outside must've opened it.

A swift check of their positions told him Walters was a step behind him, Trip was beside him one hand shielding his eyes and Iyria...Iyria was stood in the now open doorway with a gun pointed directly at her face.

He subconsciously slipped into a defensive position as he studied the face of the gunman, ignoring the sudden and disquieting silence and the bodies of dead clones littering the hall beyond the doorway.

The gunman was humanoid but not human. The species was oddly familiar and with a jolt Malcolm realised the gunman resembled an aged version of the soldier who had tried to kill him all those years ago. He resisted the urge to wince remembering how fighting the soldier had felt like fighting concrete. Yet the gunman was nowhere near as muscular as the soldier had been; a stocky man only a few inches taller than Iyria, but with a madness in his eyes that suggested he was three seconds away from shooting them all.

"You killed them," said the gunman hoarsely, his deep voice sounded odd, as if the art of speech had long been forgotten. "You killed them all. Why?"

"They were already dead," said Iyria. She tilted her chin defiantly though Malcolm could see her trembling."You killed them when you forced them into the machines, when you forced them to submit to your crazy ideas of survival - you killed them. I set their souls free from the confinement you forced them into!"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Trip edging closer to Iyria. He shook his head once as big a gesture as he dared. Trip stopped moving and caught Malcolm's gaze giving him a look of frustration and worry.

"I saved them," the gunman said shaking his head disbelievingly. "I saved all of us from extinction." The gun shook dangerously in his hand. "And you, you destroyed everything, wiped out your own people!"

"Look at me!" Iyria snapped a hint of desperation crept into her voice. "Look at what you've done to me - I'm no longer one of the People, you took my face, you took my body and forced me to wear this one like a second skin. Tell me, do you still love me? You loved me before, before the inevitable fate of our people drove you to this madness. We loved each other once. Now look at us, you a pitiful old man and me...a parasite in another woman's body."

The gun wavered dangerously in the old man's hand, his finger tensing on the trigger.

"Did you think we wouldn't retaliate?" Malcolm asked him, hoping to draw his attention away from Iyria. "You boarded our ships, mutilated our people and left them to bleed to death!"

"It was necessary for the survival of the People," said the gunman stiffly, almost as if he had rehearsed his response. "The People had to survive."

Iyria laid a gentle hand on his arm, pushing the gun down and away from her face. The gunman stared at her his expression conflicted. For a moment Malcolm even felt a twinge of pity for the man.

"No," said Iyria softly. "It was fear that drove us to this. I don't know about you but I don't want to live in this way. I don't want to look like them." She gestured to the three men. "Their bodies are so... frail, so easy to break."

"And yet they have killed us all," said the gunman bitterly. "And they will pay!" In one swift move he brought up the gun and fired.

Without even pausing to think Malcolm dived for the gunman knocking him to the ground. Iyria grabbed hold of the gun wrenching it from his grip. Malcolm could hear Walters breathing heavily from somewhere behind him. "Joe, you ok?" Out the corner of his eye Malcolm saw Trip cross over to Walters' side.

"I'm fine," Walters ground out. "It just grazed me – stings like hell."

Iyria knelt down and tossed the weapon aside. She caressed the old man's face. "It's over. No more killing." She looked up at Malcolm. "Let him go."

Malcolm gave her an incredulous look but against his better judgement relented and released the old man. Iyria gave him a nod of thanks.

"Can you stop the ships attacking our planet?" Trip asked helping Walters to his feet. "There must be some way of stopping them from here, some override command –anything!"

The old man glared at Trip as Iyria gently pulled him to his feet. "No. You erased the generator, you erased my control." He sagged, all the fight gone he seemed like a frail old man, his wrinkled face telling of a lifetime of loneliness. "I just wanted to save my people." He shook his head sadly seemingly ignoring everyone else in the room. "But they all began to die, first the soldiers after the attack on our base, then Chief Medical Officer Iain, then the Angels. I couldn't stop their DNA from breaking down, I couldn't stop the madness that took hold of them... all I could was delete their patterns, wipe them from the system."

"Oh boo hoo," a voice snapped from behind them. Two shots were fired and Iyria and the old man fell to the ground.

Malcolm did a rolling dive and snatched up the old man's previously abandoned gun. By the time he was back on his feet the unknown assailant had stepped into the room. The man held the gun in one hand, the other hanging by his side, useless and broken.

Not-Lewis quirked a grin at Walters. "Just the man I was looking for." He swung the gun round to Walters.

"Know him, Joe?" Trip asked his eyes on the gun.

Walters nodded grimly. "He tried to take my brain – I smashed his elbow."

"Seems like a fair trade," said Malcolm taking careful aim. "Drop the weapon."

"Not a chance," Not-Lewis sneered. "I've got a score to settle."

Both fired at the same time.

0 0 _Meanwhile_ 0 0

"Shields are down!"

The science console exploded in a shower of sparks and flame. Stanford ducked on instinct before diving for the burning console. A crewman yanked the fire extinguisher free from its holster on the wall and started dousing the flames whilst Stanford dragged Barnes free. "Get a medical team up here now!"

The ship rocked again. Stanford raised his head. "Stevens get us out their firing line – now!"

"I'm trying, sir! But it's like they're anticipating our every move!"

Stanford gently laid the unconscious, burnt and bleeding officer on the deck. He rose to his feet trying to block out the stench of burnt flesh.

"We've got incoming!"

The ship rocked with an intensity that knocked Stanford clean off his feet. His head bounced viciously off the deck plating. Everything seemed to fade into the background; he tried to resist the oncoming darkness but knew he was failing. The last thing he heard was Barrett crying out "The Vulcans! The Vulcans are coming!" before everything faded and the world went black.


	16. Maze

Malcolm watched as Not-Lewis hit the floor. As the blood gushed from the hole in his chest where Malcolm had shot him Not-Lewis laughed, a horrible gurgling laugh that had blood bubbling in his mouth.

"You can't cheat death forever," Malcolm told him quietly. "Drop the weapon."

"No you can't," Not-Lewis ground out raising the weapon again in a shaking hand. "But you can try." His eyes widened as he struggled for breath, his finger almost pulling back on the trigger. Finally the gun clattered to the ground and he fell still.

Malcolm edged forward and kicked the fallen weapon away. He could hear Trip groaning behind him. Not taking his eyes off the body of Not-Lewis he asked "are you alright?"

He got a grunt in response.

Malcolm reached out and checked for a pulse. There wasn't one. He shifted back and checked for Iyria's pulse even though, as her lifeless eyes stared up at him, he knew what he would find. He gently closed her eyes and rose to his feet. The old man was definitely dead, he didn't even need to check the pulse – the back of the old man's head was missing.

"Trip? Joe?" He hurried over to them. Trip grunted, blood soaking through the lower back of his uniform, his body shielding Walters. Malcolm knelt beside him.

"Don't touch it," Trip hissed, "just get me off Joe, I think he hit his head when I shoved him."

"You're bleeding, you should let me bandage it at least," said Malcolm gently helping his friend shift off of Walters's prone form. "Even a makeshift bandage is better than –"

"I'm fine," Trip flushed, "damn weapon just took a chunk outta my ass. It'll be fine, I'll sort it myself. Just check on Joe." He gingerly pulled himself to his feet using Malcolm as a crutch and bit his lower lip in an effort to stop a pained groan escaping his lips.

Malcolm waited till Trip was stood before he leant down and carefully rolled Walters onto his back. Sure enough there a bleeding wound on the younger man's temple. Malcolm tapped Walters face gently. "Joe, c'mon Joe, wake up."

Walters stirred sluggishly and opened his eyes slowly. "Ow." He squinted up at Malcolm. "Dead?"

"Not today," Trip replied from behind Malcolm.

Malcolm turned and glanced up at Trip. Trip's hand squeezed his shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

Walters blinked and pushed himself up. Malcolm stood with him and held him as he swayed dangerously. Walters squinted at the blood on Trip's uniform. "That happened 'cause you pushed me?"

Trip nodded hesitantly. "It's nothing."

"Thanks," said Walters, he shook off Malcolm's steadying grip. "I'm alright, sir." He rubbed his head and winced when his probing fingers met the bloody wound. He paused and suddenly giggled, a hysterical giggle that he didn't seem able to contain.

"Joe?" Malcolm asked concerned.

"What is it?" Trip asked leaning heavily on Malcolm as he took a hobbling step towards Walters.

"You!" Walters choked out helplessly, unable to stop giggling. "I mean, talk about putting your ass on the line!" The hysteria in his giggles seemed to bubble over and he ran a hand through his hair.

Malcolm and Trip glanced at each other.

"C'mon Joe," said Trip gently. "It's time to go."

Malcolm put his arm round Trip's waist, supporting the older man. Trip slung his arm round Malcolm's shoulders and they slowly started moving with Walters stumbling along beside them still giggling intermittently.

"You know the way out?" Trip asked Malcolm, his voice low.

Malcolm shook his head. "You?"

"I could make an educated guess," said Trip quietly.

Malcolm could hear the lie in Trip's words but nodded anyway. They began picking their way over the corpses of the dead clones, one eye constantly on Walters.

"We should find water," said Walters suddenly, mid-giggle. "And food, haven't had those in a while. Die without them. Three minutes without oxygen. Three days without water. Three weeks without food – the rule of three." He sighed and rubbed his head. "Sorry, head's all over the shop at the moment."

"It's ok," Trip told him through gritted teeth.

Malcolm glanced at his friend. It was clear that every step was causing Trip immense pain. They reached the end of the corridor that led to the generator room. "Which way? Right?"

Trip nodded once.

Malcolm tried to keep walking as Trip leaned more heavily on him with every step. All previous adrenaline had left him, leaving a bone aching tiredness in its wake. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered darkly to himself.

"You're not the only one," he heard Trip sigh, the other man's words barely audible.

"You know what would be funny?" said Walters conversationally, almost tripping over a dead clone. "If, after all we've been through, we die because we're stuck in a maze of epic proportions. Don't you think that'd be hilarious?"

Malcolm paused and glanced at Trip. "Least he's not giggling anymore."

0 0 _Meanwhile_ 0 0

Stanford stirred, screwing his face up as the smoky tang of fried electrical equipment permeated his senses. A blinding pain hammered away at his brain, Stanford attempted to ignore it and forced his eyes to open. "Good God!"

The man hovering above him drew back with a wry smile. "Not today, try not to move."

Stanford squinted up at him and waited impatiently as the 3 blurry images coalesced into the dishevelled form of Dr Benson. "Help me up," he ordered quickly, panic searing through his body as he realised where he was and what was happening. "Now!"

"Stay down," Benson snapped holding Stanford down. "The Vulcans have finally turned up to pitch in; the PITs took out our weapons and the warp drive a few seconds ago."

Stanford's eyes widened, he shoved Benson out the way and leapt to his feet only to regret it a second later as the bridge spun horribly around him in a blurred tableau of smoke and sparking consoles. "Report," he choked out desperately trying not to vomit.

"We've lost weapons and warp, sir!"

Benson grabbed hold of him as he swayed forcing him to sit down in the Captain's chair. "See? Stevens is getting us out the way, there's nothing more we can do except try and survive this massacre."

Stanford attempted to glare at him but was thwarted by the fact he couldn't do anything except squint. "There's always something." He smacked the comm. "Bridge to Engineering. Give me good news."

_"Keller here. There's no good news. Warp's gone, even if we weren't under attack it'll take hours to fix. She's not got much left in her, we get hit again and it ain't gonna be pretty."_

Stanford's mouth tightened in a thin line. "Understood. Stanford out." He turned his head fighting to keep the contents of his stomach down as he squinted at the tactical station. "Where's Gough?"

Benson shook his head.

Stanford felt his insides turn to ice. "What about Barnes?"

Benson patted his shoulder. "He's hanging in there, c'mon Mark. I need to get you to sickbay."

"No," said Stanford vehemently. "I have to be here. You go get everyone patched up. My place is here." He turned to look up at Benson and immediately regretted the sudden movement as the room momentarily lurched around him. "Go Doctor! That's an order!"

Benson gave him a calculating look. "I could medically override your command."

"But you won't," said Stanford.

Two men locked gaze. Finally Benson nodded and turned to leave.

Stanford released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He forced himself to his feet and staggered towards the unmanned tactical console. "What's happening?"

"The Vulcans are cutting through the PITs like butter, sir!" Barrett reported, one hand still glued to her earpiece. "It's amazing!"

Stanford smiled grimly. "Any PITs coming for us?"

"No sir, they broke off their attack after disabling our warp drive. Probably figure we're easy pickings." The speaker came from somewhere to his left but Stanford didn't bother to identify her.

His eyes finally focused on the tactical console and his heart sank. It was destroyed, circuitry had fried and there was a large sticky smear of blood across the panel – presumably Gough's. The blast that had knocked him off his feet must've been what killed her.

The tactical and science consoles were destroyed. One of the bridge crew was dead, another was barely hanging on, they had no warp drive and no weapons. Stanford cursed fluently under his breath, Captain Reed wouldn't have let this happen, he wouldn't have let himself get knocked out for God only knew how long!

For a moment silence reigned on the bridge.

Stanford forced himself to his feet and stumbled away from the useless tactical console. He stood in the centre of the bridge and waited impatiently for the view screen to slide into focus. Debris littered the view making it almost impossible to see anything beyond.

"How many PITs are left?" he asked his voice cutting through the silence. "C'mon, they started out with thirty, we started out with twenty. How many PITs are left? How many of ours are left?"

"I don't know, sir. Last count was nineteen of theirs and eleven of ours."

Stanford felt a surge of pride rush through him, overtaking his horror. The numbers horribly stacked against them the fleet had somehow managed to give back as good as they'd gotten, evening the odds.

But not without a great cost.

Stanford glanced round the bridge, blurred eyes taking in the destruction, the smoke and the look on the crew's faces that told him they were running solely on adrenaline and the drive to survive.

"What happened when the Vulcans arrived?" he asked finally, determined to break the empty silence.

"Their weapons went straight through the PITs shields," said Stevens excitedly. "It was as if they weren't there! My bet is the PITs hadn't bet on us getting help!"

"I didn't think the Vulcans would help," said Stanford. He reached up to rub his pounding head only to find a bandage in the way. Frowning he dropped his hand down. "Thought they didn't want to get involved in our wars."

"It was probably the logical choice," said Barrett a tiny smile crossing her face. "I gue – " She broke off mid-word and suddenly straightened up a look of sheer disbelief taking over the tiny smile from before as she listened intently to an incoming message. "We've won. They did it. The Vulcans did it," she whispered. She looked up at Stanford her eyes wide. "Sir, it's over. We won."

Stanford stared at her. "It's over?" he asked hardly daring to believe it. "It can't be that was way too quick!"

Barrett gave the tiniest of shrugs unable to wipe the beaming grin of her face. "Well the Vulcans are efficient, Commander!"

Stanford shook his head and winced as the bridge span around him. All those people lost, all that time spent fighting and the Vulcans had just swooped in defeating the enemy in minutes. "How long was I out?" he mumbled to himself.

"Long enough, sir," said a voice to his right. "Will you come to sickbay now?"

Stanford thought about it a moment, his mind racing over everything he needed to be there to help sort out. "We should go fetch the Captain back from the Planet." His legs folded beneath him and he hit the floor.

0 0 0 0

"Can we stop?" Trip ground out. "Please, I just need...a breather."

Malcolm nodded and came to a standstill. Walters stopped just ahead of them, his gaze looking oddly unfocused. Trip hissed in pain, one hand reaching round to gently touch his wound.

"Let me take a look," said Malcolm insistently.

Trip opened his mouth to argue then relented his shoulders sagging. He turned and gingerly leant forward.

Malcolm frowned as he examined the wound and gently started pulling away fragments of uniform embedded in the still oozing wound. Trip inhaled sharply but made no other sound as Malcolm worked.

"It's not actually that deep," said Malcolm straightening. He grabbed hold of the sleeve of his uniform and pulled. After a few minutes of struggling he felt the join of the sleeve give and finally rip free of the rest of his uniform. "This should work as a bandage for a bit."

"Great," said Trip gritting his teeth.

Malcolm carefully pressed the ripped off sleeve against Trip's wound and spent a few seconds making sure it was lodged securely before stepping away. "All done." He glanced over at Walters; the younger man had gone from hysterical giggles to absolute silence. Malcolm frowned worriedly. He looped Trip's arm round his shoulders bracing himself for the other man's weight as they slowly started moving again. Walters wordlessly fell into step beside them.

"You doing ok, Joe?" Malcolm asked.

Walters didn't reply seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Malcolm sighed but chose not to press the issue further, whatever was wrong there was nothing he could do about in while they were all trapped in this maze of a complex.

"How d'ya think the fleet is doing?" Trip asked breaking the silence. He attempted a grin. "I bet they've defeated the PITs and are just waiting for us to get home."

Malcolm chuckled. "Probably. I imagine Keller and Baker are attempting to kill each other over who's got the best method of fixing the ships." He sobered rapidly. "If they're still alive that is." He adjusted his hold on Trip. "We know the firepower of those PITs..."

"They've defeated them," said Trip firmly. "I know they have."


	17. Exit Door

Stanford slowly opened his eyes trying to shake off the groggy feeling that clouded his mind. He could hear the quiet sounds of movement all around him and the steady beeping of machines. He was in the infirmary he realised a moment later. Pushing himself up on his elbows he took a look around the infirmary his eyes falling on the injured Barnes in the bed next to him, his face, arms and torso carefully wrapped in burns bandages. The young science officer had his head tilted in Stanford's direction although it was impossible to tell whether or not Barnes had opened his eyes. Stanford looked away nausea bubbling up in his stomach.

All around him there were injured crewmen lying motionless on beds, a few were sat on fold out camp beds looking vaguely alert to what was happening around them. Most of the injured appeared to be from Engineering although there were quite a number from the other departments as well.

Stanford sat up and realised with a jolt his blinding headache from earlier had receded to a dull throb. He smiled in relief and gingerly pushed himself to his feet.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Stanford winced and pasted an innocent look on his face as he looked over at the speaker. Benson stared at him wearily, looking absolutely exhausted. Stanford felt a pang of sympathy for the other man.

"Did I say you could leave?" Benson asked. He gestured to the bed. "Sit."

"Phil, I have to -,"Stanford began.

"Sit," Benson repeated firmly. "I've no qualms about sedating you again."

Stanford blinked. Again? That explained the groggy feeling. Stanford sighed and sat back down on the bed. Benson moved to sit beside him.

"You look tired, Phil," said Stanford quietly.

Benson chuckled. "You're no oil painting yourself, Mark."He rubbed his face tiredly and yawned. "It's been a busy day."

Stanford nodded slightly. "How many did we lose?" For a second his eyes fell on Barnes again and he shuddered.

"Too many," Benson sighed staring down at his hands. "With some I just couldn't work fast enough, for others it was already too late by the time they got here. All I could do was make them comfortable." He straightened and gave Stanford a forced smile. "How's the head feeling?"

"Better," Stanford admitted. "I can move without waiting for the room to catch up with me."

"It's amazing what good rest and the right medication can do," said Benson wryly. His shoulders slumped and he sighed again. "If I release you its futile hope you'll rest isn't it?"

Stanford smiled ruefully. "I have to get things sorted; I can't abandon everyone to handle everything just because my head hurts. I seem to remember you doing the same thing once."

Benson frowned and gave Stanford a sideways look. "We were trapped in a cave, you had broken some ribs as far as I remember and the Captain had taken such a hard knock to the head that he was hallucinating. It was my job to take care of you both, hardly the same circumstances."

Stanford shook his head quickly banishing old memories. He glanced at Benson. "Are you going to release me?"

There was a long silence that was eventually broken by a soft moan coming from the bed beside them. In an instant Benson was on his feet and at Barnes's side whispering soothing words, Stanford flashed him a guilty look before quietly moving over to the doors.

"Come back for a check-up," Benson called to him, still at Barnes's bedside.

Stanford nodded then belatedly realised Benson couldn't see him as he slipped out the door.

0 0 _Meanwhile_ 0 0

"I can't, I can't go another step," Walters breathed tiredly, leaning heavily against the wall.

"C'mon Joe, we need to keep moving," Malcolm cajoled attempting to keep his tone light. "We have to get out of here and get home."

"No." Walters slid down the wall. "Tired."

"We should take a break," Trip murmured in Malcolm's ear. "I could use one too."

Malcolm hesitated then nodded. He helped Trip down to the floor so the man was lying on his front. Trip grunted but made no other noise as he straightened out, giving a relieved sigh as the pressure was taken off his aching feet.

Malcolm settled himself in between them both and lightly tapped Walters' knee. "Don't sleep."

Walters obediently opened his eyes with a heavy sigh. "It'd just be for a few minutes, sir."

"Not with a head wound like that," said Malcolm gently. "You can sleep later when we're back on the ship." He stretched out wincing as his aching muscles popped.

Walters exhaled slowly and frowned, leaning his clearly aching head against the cold wall. Malcolm gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile before switching his gaze to Trip. Trip gave him a tired smile, his arms pillowing his head against the hard ground.

"It's my brother's birthday soon," said Walters suddenly after a few minutes silence.

"Which one?" Trip asked glancing up at him.

Walters shrugged. "Scott's I think. Could be John's though or possibly even Alan's."

"Wait." Malcolm gave him a sideways look. "Scott, John and Alan? Your parents didn't happen to be fans of Thunderbirds did they?"

Walters chuckled lightly. "Yep. Although luckily they hated the name Virgil so I got called Joseph instead."

Malcolm grinned. "What about Gordon?"

"My middle name." Walters rubbed his face tiredly and winced. "Couldn't I just sleep for a few minutes? Head's killing me."

"No," said Trip shortly. "Why don't you tell us more about your brothers? Got any sisters?" He wriggled a little on the floor in an effort to get more comfortable.

"My family's not interesting," Walters yawned.

"Tell us anyway," said Malcolm moving so he could lean over Trip. "It'll give Trip here a distraction whilst I check his wound."

Walters straightened with some difficulty and nodded hesitantly. "Alright then. I've not got any sisters, just the five brothers."

"Five?" Trip asked wincing as it came out as more of a yelp. "Your parents were brave, six boys."

"I've got two sons and that's more than enough," Malcolm smiled. "So where do you fall in the ranking?"

"I'm the middle one," Walters smiled hesitantly his eyes taking on an oddly unfocused look as he gazed at the wall. "It goes Scott, John, Me, Alan, Jason and Michael. Drove me nuts when I was younger, most of my stuff was hand-me-downs from my older brothers and then there were the hand-me-ups when Jason suddenly had a growth spurt and got taller than me." He smiled ruefully. "Took a long time to write all the goodbye letters."

"Shame all that writin's gonna go to waste," said Trip firmly, looking relieved as Malcolm finally stopped checking over the wound on his lower back. "No point in sendin' 'em once we get back."

Walters closed his eyes. "But we aren't going to get back. I'm never going to see them again."

Malcolm jabbed Walters' knee more harshly than he intended, but it served its purpose as Walters reluctantly opened his eyes again. "We are going to get back," said Malcolm holding Walters' gaze. "Understand? The only one who gets to start with the death talk is me, and I've no intention in dying or letting either of you die whilst my kids and wife are still waiting at home for me. Do you understand?"

Walters frowned and closed his eyes again.

Malcolm jabbed Walters' knee again. "I asked you if you understood Lieutenant Commander!"

"I understand, sir," said Walters finally.

Malcolm nodded and rose to his feet. "C'mon, let's get moving." He leant over and seized Walters' arm pulling the younger man to his feet. "You've never given up before. Don't start today."

Walters' shoulders sagged. Malcolm turned and gently helped Trip to his feet. Trip hissed as the movement pulled on his throbbing injury but still tried to offer Walters a comforting look.

"Lets keep moving," said Malcolm, he glanced around the same metallic grey walls that lined every passageway. "You know, I think I recognise this corridor."

The three men fell silent as they shuffled along, all just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

Malcolm glanced at Walters every so often frowning as the other mans pace gradually slowed. Malcolm made a face as he peeled his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "Joe," he rasped, frowning he cleared his throat and tried again. "Joe, you still with us?"

Walters didn't reply carefully putting on foot in front of the other.

"As long as he's still moving he's fine," said Trip quietly, he sighed only to cough. "Shame there's no handy water fountain round here."

Malcolm nodded in agreement; he licked his lips in a futile attempt to moisten them and glanced at the door looming at the far end of the corridor. "What are we going to do?"

"Keep walking till we either find a way or..." Trip trailed off wincing. "I'd kill to be back in Doc Moore's clutches right now."

Malcolm glanced at him remembering the happy, excessively bouncy Doctor he'd met on board the Enterprise. "I think I'd prefer to be with Doctor Benson, a certain level of cynicism does the soul good." He sighed, his eyes taking in the lines of pain on Trip's face and Walters' vacant shuffle. "Although anyone would be good right now." He swallowed. "How're you doing?"

"I'm ok." Trip offered him a smile.

They lapsed back into silence, their boots echoing against the floor as they carefully approached the next door. Walters almost walked right into it but stopped just in time blinking as if he hadn't seen it. Swaying ever so slightly, he raised his hand and pushed the door open. He stepped through, turned left and stopped dead his eyes widening.

"Joe, what is it?" Trip asked worriedly, gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his lower back.

"Joe," Malcolm prompted adjusting his grip on Trip.

"It's the door," said Walters faintly. "The exit door." A tired beaming grin broke out across his face. "We've found the exit!" He shuffled aside throwing out a hand to support himself.

Trip dropped his head his shoulders shaking. Malcolm stared at him worriedly a moment before realising he was laughing. "We made it," said Trip in between bouts of laughter. "The exit door, we made it, Mal."

Walters stumbled forward leaning against the wall, ignoring the two laughing men behind him.

"C'mon," Malcolm smiled. "Let's get out of here."

Trip nodded his laughter subsiding. "Hitch us a ride on a PIT."

Malcolm shook his head grinning. "I really should have stopped him naming things." He looked up at Walters almost at the door. "C'mon." He adjusted his grip on Trip and together they started moving towards the half open exit door. Malcolm forced himself to look away as he realised the door was being kept open by the bodies of two dead clones jammed together between the wall and the door.

Walters stumbled over the two bodies almost falling over them in his eagerness to get out the cold, sterile, metallic building.

"Joe," Malcolm called. "Any PIT's out there?"

Walters blinked. "Yeah." He turned slowly and began moving again.

Malcolm increased his pace to try and catch up with Walters forcing Trip to lean more heavily on him as the increased pace pulled on Trip's wounded lower back.

Sunlight hit them as they stumbled over the two bodies holding open the door revealing the dusty, eerily silent yard, the bodies of clones strewn everywhere, some squashed by machinery others having died where they stood like the clones in the building.

Malcolm felt almost indifferent as he gazed round the fallen mass of bodies, like he had seen too many clones with his, Trip and Walters' faces lying dead to be affected by it. Although he was certain that the images would fuel his nightmares for years to come.

"Come on," Walters called rubbing a tired hand gingerly over his face.

Malcolm once again readjusted his grip on his friend and together they stumbled over to Walters and the nearest PIT. Walters fiddled with something on the side of the ship and the ramp lowered to give them entry.

Once on the bridge of the brand new PIT Malcolm helped Trip lay down and sighed rubbing his aching arms. "Ok, this thing has to be easier to fly than last time."

"Go for it," Trip mumbled tiredly. "I'll just lay here a while."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. He turned round to speak to Walters only to discover Walters had already sat, or possibly collapsed in a heap on the floor with his eyes shut. Malcolm knelt by him and gently shook his shoulder. "Joe. C'mon Joe." But the other man remained unresponsive, his chest slowly rising and falling. "Damn! Trip, Joe's out."

"Figured it'd happen sooner or later," Trip sighed and turned his head to look at him. "We need to get back and quick."

"I'll get us back," Malcolm promised.


	18. The Skin of Our Teeth

Stanford entered engineering narrowly avoiding stepping on one of the Engineers, who was fiddling with a loose panel hanging open near the door. "Where's Lieutenant Keller?"

The engineer made a vague gesture somewhere behind him before returning to his task. Stanford raised his eyebrows at the unhelpful information but said nothing. Glancing around the devastated engineering he wondered exactly where to begin looking, engineers were swarming over every piece of damaged equipment all looking more than a little worse for wear as they worked feverishly to get the ship operational again. Indeed some appeared to be wearing slings and others had plasters stuck to various cuts.

"Commander! Up here!"

Stanford looked up to see Keller wave impatiently at him from her position on top of the engine. He watched as she stood up and climbed down to meet him. "How's it going, Keller?"

"Slowly," Keller sighed. "We just don't have enough people mobile, I've got people working who only have the use of one arm and others who could use more than just a band-aid on some of their cuts. But sickbay is overflowing and Benson doesn't have enough medical personnel to sort out the minor injuries." She pulled out her hair bobble and swiftly drew her hair back into a messy ponytail. "I assume you must be better if he's released you." She raised her eyebrows. "He did release you right? You're not going to keel over are you because if you do I'm leaving you where you land, I don't have anyone spare to drag you back to Benson again."

"I'm fine," Stanford assured her. He glanced around engineering with a sinking heart. "I think I've been out of it far too long. Who's in charge on the bridge?"

"Stevens and Barrett are handling it," Keller replied. "They're doing just fine, but you might want to check out the Armoury before you head up to the bridge."

"Why?" Stanford asked uneasily.

"I think they could use some of your expertise," said Keller sighing again. She looked him straight in the eye. "I'll be honest with you I've no idea how so many of us survived this – the damage...it's incredible, I'm not even sure I can ever get her back to how she was." She smiled ruefully. "Someone up there must like us."

Stanford nodded distractedly. "Get a report to me as soon as you can."

"Will do," Keller turned and disappeared into the depths of engineering.

Stanford left engineering quickly and hurriedly made his way to the armoury dodging the various crewmen helping injured colleagues back to their quarters.

But when he finally entered the armoury he froze, his jaw dropping open in horror. "My Armoury!" his cry came out as little more than a squeak. It only took a second for his brain to shove aside the shock and concentrate on more important matters. "Need to secure the torpedoes."

"Already done, sir," a voice called. "First thing we did."

Stanford nodded relieved and watched as his team emerged from where they'd been working. He frowned. "We're missing three. Where are Maxwell, Lyons and Klienman?"

Williams, the owner of the voice shook his head. "Klienman is critical in sickbay. Maxwell and Lyons...they didn't make it."

Stanford nodded numbly. "How bad is the damage?"

"I," Williams hesitated as if he couldn't believe what he was saying. "I don't think we can fix this."

0 0 _Eight hours later_ 0 0

Malcolm slumped against the piloting console of the PIT. The room swam slowly around him but he forced himself to stay upright. The one good thing about flying in a newly made PIT was that it could go above warp 2 without flying apart, meaning their return time was taking a fraction of the time it had taken to get there.

"Trip?" He called; he frowned when no sound came out and tried again. "Trip?"

No response, although if he was honest with himself he hadn't expected one. Trip had lost the battle with consciousness two hours into their journey, blood loss and dehydration taking its toll. As for Walters... well he just hadn't woken up at all, it was only repeated checks of his pulse that assured Malcolm the younger man was in fact still breathing.

They were quickly running out of time, it was getting harder and harder to remain on his feet. Every so often he'd hear the clomp of boots against metal deck plating and would shoot up in shock only to discover there was no one there. Not so long ago he could've sworn he heard his sons calling to him.

They were running out of time.

But they were almost there, so close. Malcolm would get them home, just like he promised. He would –

He passed out.

0 0 0 0

"Bridge to Stanford."

Stanford pushed himself out from the machine he'd been working on and lunged for the comm. "Stanford here, go ahead."

"Sir, we got a PIT incoming!"

"A PIT?" Stanford ran a tired hand through his hair, leaning heavily against the wall. A sluggish thought wormed its way to the surface. "Wait, just the one?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm on my way!" Stanford cut the communication and turned back to his devastated armoury. "If you need me I'll be on the bridge. Williams, you have the armoury." He all but ran down the corridor towards the turbo-lift accidentally tripping up a rather dazed crewman, who just didn't move out of the way fast enough. "Sorry!" He called back as he threw himself into the turbo-lift.

He waited impatiently for the turbo-lift to arrive at the bridge, once there he almost stumbled as he hurried over to the nearest console. "Do we have sensors? Is there any life signs on that thing?"

"There are three life signs," Stevens replied turning round to face him.

"It's the Captain!" Stanford exclaimed. "It has to be! They made it back! Barrett, try and establish communication."

Barrett shook her head. "We've already tried, Commander. There's just no response."

"Then we'll just have to go to them. Have we got access to the shuttlebay?"

Stevens shook his head. "Keller's been concentrating on the engines and keeping sickbay running properly. We don't have use of the shuttlepods or the transporters."

Stanford sighed in frustration. "Are there any near us who can do something? What about the Enterprise?"

Barrett turned back to her console and hit a few controls. She listened intently and smiled. "Breschov says they're already on it. They'll keep us updated." She laughed. "Apparently their transporters are the one thing still working properly."

Stanford nodded in relief and moved to sit down. He glanced around at all the tired faces on the bridge. "How long has it been since any of you took a break?"

Stevens waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry, Commander. We all slept last week." He grinned and turned back to his console.

"Do you think they'll all be alright?" Barrett asked anxiously.

"Of course they will," said Stevens before Stanford could reply. "The Captain is too stubborn to die and it kinda wears off on everyone else. Doesn't it, Commander?"

Stanford smiled and nodded.

Barrett's face relaxed into a smile and she opened her mouth to speak only to be interrupted by a beeping at her console. She pressed her hand against her earpiece and listened intently. "They've got them!"

Stanford slumped back in his seat rubbing tired eyes with his hand. "It's over," he said to himself in relief. "The Captain is back, the PITs are gone. It's over."

0 0 0 0

Malcolm woke slowly. He wasn't on the PIT anymore; the surface beneath him was soft and made of cloth, not harsh and metallic like the PIT. Listening intently to the quiet noise around him he ascertained he was in a sickbay. He forced his eyes open and waited impatiently as the world swam into focus. He gingerly turned his head to see Walters lying on the bed bedside him, pale and deathly still.

"Ignoring a very long medical explanation, he'll be fine," said a voice.

Malcolm let his head loll back to see Dr Moore stood above him. "He wouldn't wake up." He blinked surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded.

"No, but he will. He's a lucky man."

"What about Trip?" Malcolm asked tiredly.

"Minor surgery to repair the damage, but given some good rest he'll make a full recovery – you all will," Moore smiled again. "You'll be back on your feet before the other two though." She reached over and adjusted something. "Your crew send their regards."

Malcolm closed his eyes in relief. "They're alive then."

"Most," Moore confirmed. She hesitated. "There were casualties." She pasted a bright smile on her face. "Don't worry about that, you just rest up." She patted his shoulder gently and moved away to check on her other patients.

Malcolm pushed himself up into a seated position, wincing as exhausted muscles fought against every movement. Now he could see properly the state of Enterprise's sickbay, noting with dismay the number of injured crowding the beds and the floor. His gaze finally fell on Trip on the biobed beside Walters. Malcolm smiled tiredly. It was over, they were safe. He flopped back down onto the biobed, closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

He woke hours later to find Walters awake and staring at him. He blinked sleepily, "Joe? You ok?"

"My head feels funny."

"You hit it."

"Oh." Walters sighed and rubbed his head worriedly. "Did they take my brain?"

"No," Malcolm gave him a reassuring smile. "We got away."

"Oh." Walters brightened and squinted obviously trying to focus on his surroundings. "We back on the Intrepid?"

"No, the Enterprise picked us up."

Walters smiled and closed his eyes. "That was nice of them."

Moore suddenly hurried towards Walters masking Malcolm's view. She spoke quietly to him, checking on the machines around his bed. Malcolm tried to peer round her to check Walters was ok but eventually gave up. Glancing around he saw the infirmary actually seemed a little emptier than before, the floor wasn't quite so crowded with the injured, he hoped it was due to more being released than more deaths occurring.

"How is he doing?" Malcolm asked as soon as Moore detached herself from Walters.

"Not bad, a little spaced out but he's doing ok," Moore replied smothering a yawn. "Captain Tucker woke up just before you, asked after you both – he's doing nicely too."

"You seem tired, Doctor," said Malcolm concerned. "Shouldn't you get some rest now?"

Moore patted his arm. "I will in a bit while." She glanced over at Trip fondly. "Captain ordered me too." She clapped a hand over her mouth and yawned. "Thought you might like to know all the remaining ships are starting to limp home to Earth." She smiled. "Chief came in here proudly announcing your engineer to be a genius and to inform you that..." She frowned trying to remember. "That she has pulled off nothing short of a miracle and got the engines of the Intrepid working." She smiled broadly. "It was kind of sweet really."

"Keller is the best," said Malcolm proudly. He paused seeing the light frown on Moore's face. "On par with Commander Baker and Captain Tucker, of course."

Moore smirked. "Very true, Captain." She yawned again. "Now if you'll excuse me I think I'll –"

"Go sleep?" Malcolm suggested helpfully.

Moore shrugged. "Or go have coffee, either works." She chuckled. "Probably sleep will be better."

Malcolm watched as she walked away into her office and shook his head, grinning.

"She gone to bed?"

Malcolm looked across to see Trip peering at him blearily.

"Yeah, I think she's finally given in," Malcolm smiled. "How're you feeling?"

Trip paused as if deeply considering the question. "I think 'ow' covers things pretty well." He yawned blinking slowly. "But we're ok." He grinned. "The 'Dynamic Duo' made it."

Malcolm laughed. "'Dynamic Duo'? I never heard that one."

"Should be trio," Walters mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Least now it should. Tremendous Trio. Triumphant trio." He smiled. "I always used to like 'Disaster Twins' better."

"Did you come up with that one?" Malcolm asked him amused.

"You always seemed to fall from one disaster to another," Walters sighed heavily and curled up tighter on his bed. "Probably good thing you got your own ships."

"But we always came through in the end – didn't we, Mal?" Trip asked letting his eyes slide shut.

"Mainly by the skin of our teeth."

"Is there any other way?" Trip mumbled grinning.

Malcolm settled back and closed his eyes. "Everyone else seems to find a way."

He smiled as he heard Trip chuckle lightly.

Within minutes all three were asleep.


	19. Home

_Dear Mr and Mrs Sanderson...Mrs Holden...Mr Jones...Mr and Mrs Moss..._

_I regret to inform you... By now you will have heard... I'm sorry to inform you..._

_Your son...your daughter...your wife...your husband..._

_Died bravely whilst fighting a grave enemy...died honourably during a battle..._

_He...she... was a valuable asset to the crew and a friend to all... he...she...was an excellent officer..._

_My deepest condolences are with you at this terrible time but know that his...her death was not in vain._

_He... she...will be missed._

_Yours_

_Captain Malcolm Reed_

0 0 0 0

Trip stirred and opened his eyes only to see Malcolm sat at his bedside, PADD in his hand with a look of deep concentration. "Penny for 'em," he drawled sleepily.

Malcolm started and gave Trip a sheepish smile. "Just thinking." He gave Trip a scrutinising look. "How's the back?"

Trip considered his question carefully. "Numb." He reached back in an attempt to check his wound but Malcolm stretched out a hand and stopped him.

"Don't think the good Doctor would appreciate you messing about with her handiwork." Malcolm glanced back at the closed door of Doctor Moore's office.

Trip sighed and caught sight of a tuft of red hair from behind Malcolm. "How's Joe doing?" He asked keeping his voice low.

Malcolm moved aside so Trip could see the owner of the red hair more clearly. "Sleeping in fits and starts really. Wakes up with nightmares." Malcolm frowned worriedly. "He's not said much."

Trip watched the younger man sleep for a moment. "He'll be alright, eventually."

Malcolm made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and ran a hand through his hair. He leant back in his seat, stretching out his back and wincing as it cracked loudly.

Now properly awake Trip took a moment to study his friend. "What about you?" He tried not to frown at the look of exhaustion on Malcolm's face and the general pale look of someone who had expended a lot of energy in a short period of time and was now paying for it.

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak then paused and shrugged.

"What's on the PADD?" Trip asked glancing at the object held firmly in Malcolm's hand.

His friend sighed and gazed bitterly at the object in question. "Report from the Intrepid, I got Stanford to send it over." He let out a mirthless chuckle. "The man needs sleep more than I do."

Trip glanced between Malcolm and the PADD, years of knowing the other man allowed him to see the tension in his slumped posture and the lines of guilt and worry on his face that belied the resigned tone. "How many did you lose?" he asked hesitantly. When he'd woken earlier on he'd asked after his crew but Moore had deflected him easily saying she would tell him when he was more rested. It was frustrating but at the time he could already feel the pull of sleep again.

Malcolm cast an empty look down at the PADD. "Almost a third of the crew," he replied quietly. "Figured I could make a start on some of the letters, at least have some ready by the time we get back." He closed his eyes tiredly. "Each one sounds the same, the same tired clichés trotted out to placate grieving families because there's nothing else to say."

Trip briefly closed his eyes, knowing that same task lay ahead of him, although he didn't know how many he would be writing. Judging from the look on Doctor Moore's face it was at least as many – if not more – that had been lost from the Intrepid.

Malcolm straightened, saving the contents of the PADD and setting it down on his knee. "Home soon," he said simply.

Trip nodded, at the same time noticing some of the feeling returning to his injured back.

"Get an extended shore leave this time," said Malcolm mustering a smile. The pathetic excuse for a smile left his face. "I don't think the Intrepid will be working any time soon."

Trip let his head sink further into his pillow. "The fallout from this is gonna be huge. There's so many ships that need replacing, so many people that need trainin' up. It's gonna be a while before things get back to any semblance of normal."

Malcolm nodded in agreement. "Be good to spend time with my kids," a true smile crossed his face. "And my wife."

Trip grinned in agreement. "Sounds like a plan."

"Mmm," Malcolm tapped the PADD. "I'm going to get back to this, I'll let you rest." He stood up and returned to his bed before Trip had a chance to stop him.

0 0 0 0

Walters glanced around the rapidly emptying sickbay of the Enterprise feeling oddly empty as he watched careful, gentle medics prep patients for transport down to Starfleet Medical. It had been decided that first and foremost the patients were to be moved, after that would come the rest of the personnel.

Doctor Moore had given him a scrutinising look but off his insistence hadn't made him get a further check up at Starfleet Medical. Trip on the other hand had already been moved leaving Walters sat with Malcolm.

"You know what you're going to do with your leave?" he asked trying to inject levity into his tone as he watched to medics carry out the next patient.

Malcolm tore his eyes away from the scene before him and glanced across at Walters. "I just want to spend time with my family." He stretched out his spine. "Although that'll have to wait till they're done debriefing us."

Walters nodded glumly. "They going to send us to the shrink again, sir?"

Malcolm didn't reply. But Walters already knew the answer. He sighed heavily and stared down at his hands. A smile suddenly crossed his face. "I hope I get Doctor Snell again, she provided hours of endless entertainment."

Malcolm gave him a look of disbelief. "Joe, the poor woman almost went mad herself after treating you."

Walters shrugged. "Not my fault she couldn't keep up with my winning sense of humour."

"I could hardly believe they inflicted you on a newly trained psychiatrist," Malcolm chuckled and gave Walters a wry smile. "Be nice to the one you get this time."

"You mean like you, sir?" Walters asked keeping his expression as innocent as possible.

"Exactly like me."

Walters smiled and relaxed minutely. "I'm hoping I'll get to see Lily and maybe see if I can round up the family for a visit or something." His smile widened. "Knowing my mother she's already got one planned, with a cake half in the oven half spread across the countertop from various attempts to help her."

"I was promised fish and chips," Malcolm offered and watched as the final patient was taken from Sickbay. "Looks like we can make a move. Admiral Archer will want to speak with us once we're planet side."

Walters eyed the exit door apprehensively, his cheerful thoughts evaporating. But a glance across at Malcolm told him his Captain wasn't particular looking forward to talking with the Admiral about their experiences either.

"Shouldn't be too hard," Walters swallowed nervously. "Its just recounting what happened." He shivered involuntarily memories skittering across the forefront of his mind.

Malcolm put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "It'll be fine." He gently nudged Walters towards the doors. "The quicker we get this over with the quicker you get cake and I get fish and chips."

0 0 0 0

Archer paced his office wishing, and not for the first time, that the galaxy would stop shovelling this kind of crazy, goddamned illogical, crap on his people. He didn't need to look at Malcolm to know what he was doing, years of having the man serve under his command let him know that Malcolm would be stood to attention – possibly not as tense as he was when he started reciting what had happened, but not relaxed either.

As for Walters, well... the young man had turned away at one point and if when Walters turned back his sleeve had been a little wet and his eyes a little red, well, neither Archer nor Malcolm had commented on it.

Archer scrubbed at his face with a tired hand. It felt like an eternity had passed in a few short days, the loss of every ship and every crewmember weighing heavily on him even though, after all these years, he knew that not every death was avoidable and some... some were even necessary 'the needs of the many...'.

He stopped pacing abruptly and turned back to face the two officers. "So the facility is still intact?"

"Yes Admiral but there's no one left to man it, all the people in that facility died."

"We killed a million, crazy guy who tried to take my brain took care of the rest," Walters chipped in bitterly. He turned his head and furiously drew his sleeve across his eyes.

"Joe," said Malcolm a note of warning in his voice.

"It's alright, Malcolm," Archer sighed. "I think that's enough for now gentlemen." He watched Walters pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed up in pain. "Go take some time to yourselves. We'll be in contact when we need anything further." He focused on each man in turn. "You did good, under extremely trying circumstances. You saved a lot of lives with what you did."

"Lost a lot as well," Malcolm muttered his voice barely audible.

Archer chose to ignore him for the moment not wanting to overly tax the two officers. "Dismissed."

He watched them leave, one with the weight of many lives on his shoulders, the other barely holding himself together and both carrying a palpable sense of loss.

Sighing he stretched out his aching muscles and prepared to head to Starfleet Medical. There were people he needed to see – one more than others, reports of Trip's injury had him concerned.

"I'm too old for this," he muttered to himself as he left his office.

0 0 0 0

Trip opened his eyes as he felt someone take gentle hold of his hand. He smiled. "Hi."

His wife visibly relaxed and smoothed back the hair from his face with her hand. "You're going to make me grey before my time," she joked lightly, the tight lines of worry on her face betraying her jokey tone.

"You'd still look beautiful with it," he squeezed her hand.

"Charmer," her eyes fell on the bandaging on his lower back. "Are you ok? When I got the call I – Christ Trip, I –" She stopped mid sentence briefly closing her eyes, clearly trying to keep her emotions in check. She attempted a smile. "I think you've used up your hero quota for one lifetime."

Trip pulled a face. "Do I look like Superman?"

"It's a shame; I think you'd look wonderful in spandex." His wife attempted a joke.

Trip smiled reassuringly. "I don't think I've got the legs for spandex."

She laughed, but it sounded brittle, almost unnatural. She squeezed his hand and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Are you ok? Honestly? And don't go all stoic on me I want the truth."

Trip bit his lip and focused on his hand, watching as his wife rubbed soothing circles with her thumb against the back of his hand. "No." He looked back at her, looking at the wispy strands of hair that had fallen out of her messy ponytail and her worriedly tired appearance. "It'll heal though."

"I wasn't really asking about your back," she said lightly, fixing him with a scrutinising stare.

Trip almost shrugged helplessly but then thought better of it. Approaching footsteps distracted him however.

His wife sighed as Archer came into view. "I'll go get myself a coffee, I'll be right back." She stood and kissed him softly before reluctantly leaving, nodding to Archer as she left.

Archer watched her leave ruefully. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's alright, Jon," Trip waved his hand in the direction of the chair. "Take it you've spoken to Mal and Joe?"

Archer sat down heavily. "Yep."

Trip shifted his position slightly, turning his head so he could see Archer better. "I don't want to go through it all right now, Jon."

Archer gave a choked laugh. "I don't want to hear it again."

"Right," Trip nodded. "Were they alright?"

Archer shrugged. "Malcolm was...Malcolm and Joe was barely holding it in. Understandable." He ran a hand through his hair.

"Sucks doesn't it."

"Yeah, it really does."

The two men lapsed into companionable silence.

0 0 0 0

Walters stood dumbly in front of the door, one hand raised to knock, the other clenching at his uniform. He couldn't bring himself to knock, but he couldn't bring himself to leave either, trapped in an odd state of limbo at an unfamiliar door.

Inhaling sharply he finally knocked and waited with helpless impatience.

The door opened moments later and Lily's face peered round. Her eyes widened when she saw him and she flung the door back. "Joe! I don't believe it – what happened to your head? Are you alright? How long have you been back?" She stepped back and gestured for him to come in, one hand was supporting her stomach, reminding Walters of her still healing wound.

He stepped inside, suddenly unable to speak as he stared round her small, cosy home. Funny, it hadn't changed since the last time he saw it – when was that? Three years ago now?

"Joe?" Lily's hand gently touched his shoulder snapping him out of his thoughts.

She was so hesitant now, not that he blamed her, after all the clone had his face, every second with her was probably bringing up bad memories.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have come," he blurted out turning back to face the door. Mid-turn something inside him snapped and his cheeks burned with humiliation as he realised tears had started to trickle down his cheeks.

Lily caught hold of him, her grip more forceful, less tentative. "Joe..." Wordlessly she gave him a gentle hug and held him as he sobbed, the force of it jarring his aching head.

"All those people, Lil'," he sobbed unable to stop the tears anymore. "Over a million, theirs and ours, so many deaths... they were just ordinary people forced into it by some mad scientist... that machine, Lil', it took who you were and stored it like a computer programme...they wanted to take my brain... I didn't think I was gonna make it..."

Lily rubbed his back in soothing circles. "Ok Joe, it's going to be ok. I'm here, you're alive... that's enough for now – you're ok."

Walters pulled away from her scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve, finally managing to stem his sobs. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't... I'm sorry."

Lily caught hold of his face and as if on impulse, kissed him. Walters blinked in surprise, mouth hanging over as she pulled away again, her hands still holding his face.

"One day, it will be ok and it won't hurt so much," she smiled her eyes oddly bright. "It will be ok eventually, I promise. Trust me, I know."

Mind devoid of any coherent thought Walters nodded. "Ok." He wiped at his eyes again. "Ok."

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Malcolm nudged open his front door, the smell of home hitting him as soon as he entered. A dark haired head peered round the living room door to stare at him.

"DADDY!"

His youngest son collided with his legs; Malcolm heaved him up into his arms and smiled. "Hey son, you miss me?"

Eddie giggled and hugged him tightly. "You were gone ages, are you staying longer this time?" He squirmed and wriggled out of Malcolm's arms. "Come see what I did. Mummy put it on the fridge 'cause she said it was so good." He took Malcolm's hand and dragged him down the hallway towards the kitchen.

"Where is everyone?" Malcolm asked as they approached the fridge.

"Mummy's upstairs with Denny and Jonas is outside playing football," said Eddie impatiently. "Look!" He gestured to the drawing held proudly to the fridge with brightly coloured magnets. "What do you think?"

Malcolm stared solemnly at the picture. "I think it's magnificent. Did you do it at school?"

"Yup! Teacher gave me 2 team points for it 'cause she said it was so good," Eddie beamed with pride.

The backdoor opened with a crash to reveal Jonas, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his face flushed and grass stains running up his trousers. He smiled brightly. "Dad! Mum didn't say you were getting back today." He frowned. "Actually she didn't say when you'd be coming back." He squirmed under Malcolm's stare and glanced down sheepishly at the stains his trousers. "Oops."

Lump in his throat Malcolm pulled his eldest into a tight hug. Surprised Jonas blinked and hugged him back. "I'm not in trouble about the stains?"

Malcolm released him smiling. "See what your mother says."

Jonas sighed and tried dusting off his trousers.

"Ha, ha, you're in trouble," Eddie sing-songed from behind Malcolm.

Jonas pulled a face and then his expression cleared. "Hey Dad, were you in that big battle? Everyone's been talking about it at school, was it scary?"

"No, I wasn't there," Malcolm cut in quickly. "I was on a mission elsewhere."

"Where?" Eddie asked peering up at him.

Malcolm opened his mouth to answer but was saved from answering by a soft exclamation from behind him. "Kids, why don't you go play for a bit, I need to talk with mum," said Malcolm smiling broadly at his sons.

Grumbling the boys ran off into the living room.

"You realise that the living room is going to look like a bomb's hit it," said Emma sighing as he turned to face her. She held him still and gave him a scrutinising look. "All in one piece." Her shoulders slumped in relief and she kissed him.

Malcolm held her close, breathing in the familiar scent. "Hi."

"When I saw the news I thought for a second that you were..." Emma paused. "But then I remembered you have more lives than a damned cat." She tightened her hold on him, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Just...just stop trying to use them all up – alright? I don't... I'm not sure if I... I mean, I can't... I can't keep doing this, wondering if you're going to come back to me, wondering if you'll be intact if you do."

Malcolm closed his eyes. The old, tired argument of 'it's the risks of the job' on the tip of his tongue. "I know," he said finally. "I'm sorry." He kissed the top of her head. "The kids alright? The boys seem fine – is Denny ok?"

"They're fine, they... they're used to you going away, Eddie didn't notice anything but Jonas has been quieter, kept asking me about you and when you were coming home." Emma started fiddling with the zip on one of his pockets. "Denny isn't old to notice any difference, she just done what she always does: eat, sleep and poo."

Malcolm didn't know how to reply and stayed silent.

"I want to hear about everything later," said Emma firmly.

"Emma, I –" Malcolm started to object.

"I need to know, so when the nightmares start I'll know what to do," said Emma staring at him defiantly. "Don't shut me out." She held his gaze for a minute then glanced at her watch. "It's almost tea time." She smiled tiredly. "Fish and chips?"

"Sounds great."

She pulled away and indicated the picture on the fridge. "Have you seen this? Proof our son is a genius; his teacher said it showed real artistic talent."

Malcolm grinned broadly, shoving all the events of the past few days into a dark corner of his mind. "He's our son, of course he's brilliant."

There was a resounding crash from the living room followed by loud cries from upstairs.

"I'll get Denny," said Malcolm quickly.

Emma nodded resigned and headed for the living room. "Boys, what have you done?"

Malcolm took the stairs two at a time and hurried into his daughter's room. He gently lifted the crying baby from her cot and held her close. "Hi, daddy's here, it's alright." Denny's cries halted and tiny fist clenched hold of his uniform as she regarded him with big blue eyes. "Oh you were just after a cuddle, were you?" He paused staring down at her, the memories he'd tried to shove away moments before returned and his mouth dropped open slightly. Blinking away images of hundreds of dead bodies he gazed at his daughter. "I'd do it all again you know," he whispered to her. "A million times over if it would keep you and your brothers safe." He kissed the top of her head. "I'd do _anything_ to keep my children safe." He thought of Trip and Walters, and of all the people who'd lost their lives. The guilt weighed heavily on him but it couldn't override the knowledge that he would do it all again if he had to.

In his arms Denny gurgled contentedly.


End file.
